


A Dead Heart Still Breaks

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Corpse Bride AU, Discussion and Depiction of Suicide, M/M, Miscommunication, No discussion of homophobia as there's enough angst without it, No wait don't leave I promise there's a happy ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Surprisingly canon-compliant, Technically I guess this is Post-Seine, Unrequited to requited love, accidentally married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 10:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16473965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: The moon hung full and bright over the water, the trees standing out in sharp relief with their bare branches like blades against the sky.Stooping, Valjean plucked a blade of dry grass from the earth and began to meander through the wood. “With this hand,” he murmured, “I will lift your sorrows.”





	1. The 15th of February, 1833

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!!! I am procrastinating everything else I should be working on by writing some more Sad Old Men, just in time for the Spooky Day itself. 
> 
> A thousand thank-yous to [AnonymousFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousFan/pseuds/AnonymousFan) and [everydayatleast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everydayatleast/pseuds/everydayatleast) for all their support, beta-reading, and shouted encouragement. <3

“Monsieur le Baron, from the beginning, again.” A low muttering swept the church as the priest sighed heavily. “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows. Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine. With this candle, I will light your way in darkness. With this ring, I ask you to be mine.”

At the altar, Marius Pontmercy shifted on his heels. “Y-yes, Monsieur,” he stammered, reaching for the slender white taper standing crookedly in its base. “With this candle -” he began, bending forward to light the wick from the votive burning between them. “With this candle -” The flame did not catch. On the third attempt the young groom succeeded, only for the spark to blow out the very moment he straightened.

Another murmur went through the pews, while beside him on the altar platform, Cosette stifled a giggle.

The cathedral was beautiful, Valjean thought to himself, a magnificent backdrop for the catastrophe unfolding before his very eyes, and not only because the Pontmercy boy had tripped again over his vows for the hundredth time in three hours. It had required all the strength left in his aged body, down to the very dregs, to don a suit and evening cravat and present himself to the Gillenormands and their guests as M. Fauchelevent. Valjean had borne it for Cosette’s sake, but if there was one thing to be grateful for in the entire affair, it was that after the wedding, he would never have to do such a thing again; he would see to it.

“Continue,” the exasperated priest commanded, and Marius stuttered through his lines again just as the doors at the back of the narthex opened with a long-echoing creak.

The priest went on, “Let us pick it up at the ‘candle’ bit,” and a man in a powdered wig and tailcoat made his way down the long nave to the front of the church, where sat the friends and family assembled to participate in the wedding rehearsal.

Distantly, Valjean overheard a servant whisper, “A Baron du Thénard, Monsieur Gillenormand,” but his eyes were transfixed upon his daughter and the words did not hardly register.

“A seat for the Baron,” came M. Gillenormand’s affable tones, and the stooping man was led to an open pew.

“I haven’t a head for dates,” the newcomer announced, a genteel turn to his voice. “Apparently I am a day early for the ceremony. Do carry on,” he added, waving a handkerchief in the direction of the altar.

The priest folded his hands in front of him. “Try it again, Baron Pontmercy,” he said, while Cosette leaned over and quietly lit her fiancé’s candle from her own.

“Yes—yes, Monsieur.” Marius nodded vigorously, the sweat shining on his brow. He held up his hand and cleared his throat.

The priest’s mouth thinned. “Right.”

“Right,” Marius repeated. “Oh—right!” Hastily, he transferred the candle to his other hand and held up the right instead. “With this, ah...”

“ _Hand_.”

Striding towards the altar, the bridegroom repeated, “With this hand, I will...” He stepped too far and knocked into the altar table, threatening to upset the chalice of wine upon it.

“Three steps, three!” cried the priest despairingly. “Have you even remembered to bring the ring?”

“The ring! The ring...” As Marius fumbled with his coat pocket, withdrawing a gold band, Valjean hung his head. The boy’s nerves aside, the wedding date was set, and Valjean’s fate was sealed with it. As soon as Cosette was married, her happiness guaranteed, he would tell the young Baron what he was. He had no choice; Cosette was to join bourgeois society, where she would be treated to all the refined things due to a girl such as she, and there was not room in that life for a convict and parole-breaker. If he were ever found out, it was not only his world which would be shattered, but Cosette’s as well. The scandal would ruin her.

Nevertheless, there was little comfort in his bleak vision of the future without his daughter in it. Valjean trembled to think what would become of him when the last rays of Cosette’s sunlight faded from his life entirely; already, he wearied more easily, the twilight of the soul upon him, and there was nowhere left to go but forward into the fall of night.

At the altar, Marius stumbled over his shoelaces, the ring slipping through his fingers and falling with a metallic ping to the floor.

“Oh dear,” he mumbled, stooping to retrieve it. Unfortunately, he neglected to set down his candle, and the flame singed the sleeve of his suit.

Across the aisle, Gillenormand’s guests gossiped under their breath.

“...absolute ninny of a boy,” said one elderly woman to another. “Though it can hardly come as a surprise, considering his father.”

“ _His_ father?” retorted the second woman. “At least his mother was of noble breeding. The bride on the other hand—what sort of a surname is Fauchelevent? Do you know anything of her family?”

His face growing hot, Valjean kept his gaze fixed firmly on the flagstones under his shoes as the first woman replied, “No more than anyone else. That man over there is her father.” Valjean’s neck prickled with the sensation of being stared at. “He is a recluse, though rumor has it he possesses quite a fortune—the girl’s dowry is said to be substantial.”

“Really?” Adjusting her décolletage, her companion asked, “And is he married?”

Scoffing, the other spinster replied, “These retiring types always seem to have a skeleton in the closet - a young wife who died too soon, a child born out of wedlock—mark my words, there will be something strange and unwholesome about him. You would be much better off with Charpentier, his late wife had gout, you know, until...”

Valjean closed his eyes, blotting out the words and the world as one as he worked to keep his breathing even. He had been right to think he had no place among these people; the very notion was absurd. And the longer he kept at his pretense, the more likely it became that he would be exposed. He was right to remove himself from Cosette’s life. Anything less would be to endanger her.

A clamor arose from the front of the cathedral, and Valjean looked up in time to see the priest admonish the Pontmercy boy. “No, no, and no—wrong again! You must learn your vows, Monsieur, unless you wish to look the fool tomorrow, in which case I do not doubt you will succeed!”

Marius’ face visibly reddened, and he protested inaudibly as Cosette hurried down the altar steps and over to where Valjean sat in the front row.

“You mustn’t mind Marius, Papa,” Cosette said lowly. “He is anxious, that is all. It does not help that his grandfather has invited all his friends, for they are so concerned with appearances, and Marius is not in the least. If only there were anyone he could invite... But he will know what to say come tomorrow.”

Fixing a smile on his face, Valjean patted her hand. “I am sure it will all go according to plan, my dear. You have both been waiting for this day for many months now. A bit of apprehension is quite natural.”

Cosette let out a breath of laughter. “I suppose Marius is not the only one who is anxious. Thank you, Papa, you always know the right thing to say. Please tell me you have thought about our offer. The house on the Marais is much too grand for just the two of us and the Gillenormands, and it would bring us such joy for you to live there also.”

Valjean ducked his head and got to his feet. “I know that you think that to be true, treasure,” he said, unable to shake the words of the woman guest. _Unwholesome_ , she had said; well, in that she was not wrong. His past was a thing of horror, and it could not be allowed to taint his daughter’s peaceful new life. “But I have told you, I cannot accept. And my answer will not change, I am afraid. If you will excuse me, Cosette...”

Turning aside, Valjean made a path to the side aisle. Suddenly the atmosphere was suffocating, and he could not stand it. Without quite breaking into a run, Valjean fled the hall, pushing open the cathedral doors and venturing out into the night.

 

***

 

Hurrying away down the cobblestone street, Valjean wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Behind him, the looming specter of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont cast a long shadow in the moonlight, her Gothic rose window scattering irregular kaleidoscopes of color across the pavement. Valjean could hear the dismayed cries of his daughter and her betrothed, but he did not turn back. Though he had no desire to cause them distress, neither could he pretend to sit unaffected in the pews any longer.

Paris in the darkness was a strange beast. In times past, Valjean had inhabited it, at one with the nighttime and its generous shadows that were quick to conceal him from prying eyes. That February evening, however, there was an uneasy quality to the air, a humid dampness which was entirely unseasonable even for the earliest of springs. It gave the dim light cast by the gas lamps the effect of being underwater, of a hazy fog obscuring the city. Valjean scarcely noticed, moving like a man possessed. Only when he had left the church far behind did he slow to a walk.

He told himself that it was fair. Cosette, darling girl that she was, deserved nothing but to be adored, and for all his flaws, it was Marius who loved her best. They would be happy together, nestled in the quiet, cloistered streets of the Marais. It was selfish of him to wish it were otherwise.

Valjean arrived at the river. It seemed that the Seine was the source from whence the fog emanated: it rose off the waters in wispy tendrils that curled and wavered like grasping, bony fingers. Raising his head, Valjean gazed across the bridge to the Cathédrale Notre-Dame des Paris beyond. Even at that late hour, it glowed with light from within, and he felt heartened somewhat by the sight. The Pont au Double granted him passage to the island; Valjean stared up at the delicate stained glass with weary eyes. It would have been a comfort to enter and pray, but the doors were shut fast.

His wanderings having not yet exhausted the restlessness in his breast, Valjean spared the cathedral a final glance and turned away, walking wheresoever his feet might carry him. Another bridge returned him to the mainland proper, and Valjean paused among the woods lining the quay. The moon hung full and bright over the water, the trees standing out in sharp relief with their bare branches like blades against the sky.

He did not want to dislike Marius, and neither did he begrudge Cosette her happiness; these two things Valjean knew. Yet it was difficult to ignore the deep-set ache of loss within him, both at the loss of his daughter and at a life which was, but for her, empty of love. He had known no tenderness for a woman other than as a beneficiary granting alms, or as a sympathetic ear at a sickbed. What might it have been like, he wondered, to marry?

Stooping, Valjean plucked a blade of dry grass from the earth and began to meander through the wood.

“With this hand,” he murmured, “I will lift your sorrows.” His hands were rough and scarred, but in lifting the sorrows of others, they were well-versed. It was a vow he believed he could keep; at least, he thought he would like to have had the opportunity to try. “Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.”

It was at that point when Valjean came upon a clearing, a small churchyard of unmarked headstones. He stopped where he stood, removing his hat respectfully. The deaths of the last year were too many in number to be confined to the old cemeteries, and so it was that spare plots of land across the city were worked into potters’ fields, wherein to lay the poor and nameless to rest. Giving the headstones a wide berth, Valjean nodded to the sign of the cross and continued onward.

“...for I will be your wine,” he repeated thoughtfully, twirling the length of grass between his thumb and forefinger. “With this candle, I will light your way in darkness.”

He could have done for a candle, he thought. It was growing harder to see among the trees, their gnarled trunks and hungry branches pressing in close. He could scarcely make out the river through the thicket anymore, or the street. It was a relief to be alone, but there was no denying that something was eerie about the way the light struck the leaf mold, and the damp air was beginning to sink through his topcoat and chill his blood.

Rounding a bush, Valjean stepped into a second clearing, smaller than the first. It was surrounded by trees on all sides, the face of the moon concealed behind them. Somewhere up above, the cry of a raven broke the quiet, and Valjean startled. There were no headstones jutting out of the earth, however, and so he lingered, looking wistfully again at the blade of grass he had plucked. Bending it into shape, he knotted it into a circle and slid it over his finger.

“With this ring, I ask you to be mine,” he muttered.

A shape in the vegetation caught his eye, and Valjean bent closer to examine it. It was what appeared to be a branch, twisted in the vague semblance of a human hand. With a wry huff of amusement, Valjean crouched down and slipped the makeshift ring from his finger. If anyone could have seen him there, they would have thought him quite mad, but it was a harmless flight of fancy which had taken over, and he allowed the little dream to pan out as he cupped the branch, imagining that he knelt at the feet of some faceless lover.

“With this ring, I ask you to be mine,” he said again, and slid the ring onto the branch.

The night was still and silent.

Valjean’s heart beat too loudly in his ears, but nothing happened. Of course it did not; he was a foolish old man, and he was alone as he had ever been. Withdrawing his hand, Valjean made to get to his feet.

That was when the branch reached out and coiled around his wrist like a vice.

“Ah!” Valjean stared at his arm in shock, tugging vainly against the force of the grip shackling him in place. That was not all; below his feet, the loamy soil heaved and gave way, crumbling apart, and what he had taken for a branch sloughed off layers of moss and decay to reveal a white, skeletal hand encircling his wrist.

Throwing himself backwards, Valjean pulled free, but whatever horror he had awoken was rising from the earth, a terrible silhouette against the midnight sky. A glimpse of burning eyes caused what presence of mind he still possessed to take flight; Valjean scrambled to his feet and ran without looking back.

Bolting through the trees as fast as his legs would carry him, Valjean’s breath came in heaving pants. He did not want to think about what he had seen, did not want to consider that it could have been real, and least of all did he want to be reminded that for the briefest of moments, something in those eyes had struck him as familiar.

He burst out of the wood like all the denizens of hell were at his heels, and for all Valjean knew, they were. Ahead was a bridge which would take him back to the Île de la Cité. If he could reach it—if he could get to the church—perhaps he would be safe.

Valjean set foot on the bridge. Below, the waters of the Seine swirled higher with fog. He thought he heard footsteps behind him, but that was impossible—it had to be impossible. He ran faster. Then Valjean heard boots click against the paving stones, closer than they were before. He did not dare look, afraid that he was mad and would see nothing, and even more afraid that he would indeed see a figure pursuing him like a ghost out of his nightmares.

He was not quite midway across the river when a hand closed around his shoulder, holding him fast. Valjean spun around, his heart in his throat, and the sight which met his eyes made him tremble where he stood. He had not been mistaken; he knew that silhouette in the dark. He knew the imposing height, the top hat pulled low, and the severe face that the hat shrouded. He knew well the whiskered cheeks and the piercing eyes which were always watching. He knew all of this, yet the picture was somehow wrong, distorted.

“Javert?” asked Valjean weakly. “I thought you were dead.”

The figure raised his head as if in challenge, and it was the Inspector’s gravelly tones which replied, “I am.”

The moonlight struck the specter’s face, and Valjean let out an involuntary gasp as he realized what was changed: Javert’s flesh was the milky blue of a corpse, and the hand clamped over his shoulder was like ice even through his layers of clothing. The coat the man wore was damp, damp as the night air, and his hair hung loose and unkempt under his hat.

As Javert took a step forward, Valjean stepped away, until he felt the stone parapet at the small of his back. They stood there frozen on the Pont au Change, Javert staring down his nose and Valjean looking up in terror. Slowly, Javert raised his other hand to Valjean’s throat, where it wrapped around his cravat.

“Jean Valjean,” he said with relish. “At last.”

The smile contorting Javert’s dead lips was one of immense satisfaction. It was the last thing Valjean saw before the world went black at the edges, and he knew nothing more.


	2. Someone Who is a Judge of the Matter Produces the Effect of Being Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, Valjean puts his foot in his mouth.

When Valjean came to, he was lying prone on the ground. The furious beating of his heart suggested that it had all been some frightful dream. He prayed that when he opened his eyes, he would find he had simply fallen asleep in the clearing near the river, and the world would be as it was.

His eyes blinked open. Bending over him was an angular, bluish face, its features uncharacteristically arranged in the semblance of concern. Valjean could not prevent a small whimper from escaping him as Javert grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him to his feet.

“There,” said Javert, straightening Valjean’s cravat and smoothing the wrinkles from his topcoat. “As my new husband, I must ask that you make some effort to remain presentable. The others have a certain degree of respect for me, and I will not have you sullying it with your slovenly habits.”

Valjean’s arms hung limply at his sides as he allowed the Inspector to tug and adjust; those same large hands which so often sought to subdue him brushed the dirt from his clothes, and the incongruity left Valjean baffled. But if he were already captured, as seemed to be the case, then Javert had the license to take his time, like a spider spinning a fly into its web. Inside, Valjean was reeling, both from the discovery that he had not, in fact, been dreaming, and from the inexplicable words Javert had only just uttered.

He decided it was the latter of these which was the easiest to address. “H-husband?” Valjean stammered.

Javert paused in what he was doing, meeting Valjean’s eye. “Yes,” he said. “You asked for my hand. I agreed. That makes you my husband, in accordance with the laws which govern this place.”

“I asked...” Valjean repeated faintly, and only then did he remember his fanciful murmuring of the wedding vows in the wood. Understanding struck him all at once. “We are married?”

With a quirk of his eyebrow, the Inspector replied, “I did just say as much, did I not?”

“But...” Valjean took a nervous step back. “But that’s...”

For the first time, he took a glance around him. They stood in a plain little room with what looked chillingly like a coffin in the corner and a washstand against the wall. The stand held not water, but bottles with such labels as Formaldehyde and Epsom Salt. The coffin, Valjean also noticed, was made up like a bed, and the window to the left of it had a massive spider’s web draped across the lintel. The only door was on the opposite wall; Javert stood blocking the exit.

“Where am I?” Valjean finished dazedly.

The Inspector turned his head to one side. “This is my apartment,” he explained. “Or what passes for it. You fainted, so I brought you here.”

Pursing his lips, Valjean asked, “You did not think rather a hospital?”

Javert looked at him with dry humor. “There is little need for hospitals in a city of the dead.”

“Oh.” Valjean dropped his gaze, embarrassed.

Continuing, Javert clasped his hands in front of him and spoke with an animation he usually reserved for delivering reports. “There are a few people to whom we must pay a visit, and then I thought we might go for a walk—it is useful to know one’s way around the city, and I recall that you liked to -”

“- I think,” Valjean interjected, “that there has been some mistake. You see, it was not my intent to marry you.”

His face clouding over, Javert scowled. “A mistake?” he asked incredulously. “How can it be a mistake? You put a ring on my finger.”

So saying, he extended his hand, and Valjean looked down to behold what was indeed a ring, more finely woven than the crude circlet he had tied, but unmistakably fashioned from a blade of grass. It was slipped over a metacarpal, bare bone the color of ivory, and he had to repress a shiver at the grisly sight.

“I did not know,” Valjean tried apologetically, raking his fingers through his hair in distress. “Your hand I mistook for a bush. Your—your body was not with the churchyard, there was no headstone...”

At that, Javert turned away, chuckling darkly. “Of course there was not,” he said. “Why should there be? Why should I be permitted to rest in peace like other miserable souls after what I have done to get here?”

He pivoted, crossing to the door before Valjean could reply. Facing away from him, the Inspector squared his shoulders.

“If you do not like it,” he said coldly, “then you ought to have been more mindful of your words. For better or for worse, you are wed to me now, Valjean. I would advise you to get used to it. We have an eternity to live with one another, after all.”

So saying, he drew open the door and shut it forcefully behind him, sending the walls of the little apartment shaking. The click of the lock told Valjean what he had already known—that Javert would be relentless now that in death he had the opportunity once more to make a prisoner of his adversary.

Adversary, Valjean thought, and husband? It was an especially callous sort of mockery, almost laughably so, or it would have been had Valjean felt remotely like laughing. Instead, there was a hollow pain in his chest filling him with resignation and sorrow. He had not even gotten to see Cosette happily married. He had not even gotten to bid her goodbye.

Though he guessed what would be the result, Valjean went to the door. He listened intently, but it sounded as though Javert had vanished. He tried the handle; it was bolted fast and did not budge. Turning, Valjean eyed the window instead. He liked spiders on principle, but that was a very large web.

Too short of other options to have qualms, Valjean approached cautiously and pushed on the shutters. To his dismay, they rattled but did not open. He pushed harder, and then harder again, but to no avail. The Inspector must have barred the window from the outside.

Thwarted and despairing, Valjean collapsed onto the coffin bed, heedless of his dress clothes and of Javert’s carefully-folded sheet corners. The hollow feeling deepened; he had thought, that sleepless night in June, he was to be returned to the galleys for what little remained of his life. But then Javert vanished into the night, and the carriage with him. Where the man went, there was no telling.

For three days, Valjean had waited, jumping at every shadow and every creak of the house as he anticipated Javert’s return and his subsequent arrest. Javert never came. Finally, the announcement arrived with the paper: the body of a Police Inspector had been dredged from the river, drowned. Valjean was free after that; free enough, at least, to see that his daughter would be well looked-after when he was gone.

In life, Javert had never carried out his final threat. Yet now they were so improbably married, it seemed he preferred to make Valjean his prisoner after all. The thought set him back to trembling; did the Inspector mean to keep him under lock and key for the rest of his afterlife? Did he expect to wield the lash if he were not obeyed? Valjean did not know. He knew nothing, save that he was suddenly keeping company with a dead man.

Still, of all the cells he had seen in his time, that spartan bedroom was the least offensive of the lot. The mattress was soft enough, and he was not yet wearing chains. Valjean took a deep breath, strengthening his resolve. He could bear it, he told himself. And perhaps if he were vigilant, the opportunity to escape would arise. He would not miss Cosette’s wedding, not if he had any say in the matter.

 

***

 

Valjean was beginning to doze when he heard the sound of the doorknob. Jerking back to alertness, he sat up straight and folded his hands in his lap. He tried to swallow his nerves, though he did not entirely manage it; as the door swung inwards, the expression he adopted was closer to one of constipation than of calm.

As expected, it was Javert. He closed the door soundly behind him, and then he turned. His hair he had combed and drawn back, and his hat he held in his hands. Without it, the Inspector did not look quite so imposing.

“If you will come,” Javert began, “I would show you something.”

Valjean’s shoulders hunched. He did not care to go anywhere else Javert might think to drag him; the bedroom was a known quantity, but who could say where he might be taken next? The odds of being put in some medieval dungeon or left to stand shackled and humiliated in the town square were too great. Valjean was about to say as much when he was stopped by the look on Javert’s face. The Inspector’s eyes were almost pleading, and though his mouth was set in its usual grim line, there was a stiffness in his bearing not unlike how he had held himself at the barricade, as though he expected it to come to blows at any moment.

Briefly, Valjean tried to see the situation from Javert’s perspective. If he had been woken from eternal slumber to find he was married to a man who did not want him, he supposed he might turn equally as desperate. This in mind, Valjean could not bring himself to say he would rather be a captive alone in the bedroom than accompany Javert, no matter how true he thought the sentiment was. Instead he sighed, getting slowly to his feet.

“And what is it you would show me?”

Javert’s fingers squeezed the brim of his hat so tightly that they put a crease in the material, but his voice was measured as he replied, “It is not a proper wedding gift, though I doubt you would accept it if it were. Still, I thought you might enjoy to go and...”

Frowning slightly, Valjean took a step closer. “It is something for me?”

The Inspector did not meet his eyes. “It is,” he said rigidly.

The knot in Valjean’s stomach loosened at that, and though his chest still ached, the feeling was not so hollow as it had been before. Tentatively, he took one of Javert’s hands in his own. The sensation of bones lacing through his fingers was a foreign one, but it was not as repulsive as he might have guessed, and the amazed disbelief in Javert’s eyes brought an unexpected warmth to his face.

“Then I would be pleased to go with you.”

For a moment, Javert did not reply, too stunned that Valjean had actually agreed to say anything. The moment passed; he nodded brusquely and offered his arm for Valjean to take instead, pulling the door back wide.

The remainder of the apartment was small; a creaky staircase led down to a drab sitting room with a dining table, though what a dead man ate, Valjean was not about to inquire. They skirted the furniture, a curious flutter in Valjean’s stomach as he held onto the Inspector’s arm, and then they came to the front door. Donning his hat again, Javert led the way out onto the street.

As Valjean stepped outside, his mouth fell open in astonishment. He was not in Paris any longer, that much was certain. The sky above was black and starless, and the street was alive with the dead. Everywhere he looked, corpses of all shapes and sizes wandered the city. Some, like Javert, still had the flesh clinging to their bones in varying states of decay. Others, long-since picked clean by maggots and worms, were skeletons in truth, and flashes of ribs and femurs showed through their tattered, rotting clothes. Without quite realizing it, Valjean pressed closer to Javert’s side.

“This way,” said Javert, and as he strode down the street, Valjean hurried to keep up. The sight of so many cadavers in one place was beginning to make his skin crawl. Surely, the living were not meant to venture into the Land of the Dead?

The Inspector walked with a confidence to which Valjean was accustomed, and it provided a strange sort of assurance as they traversed the cobblestones. Once again, however, the notion struck him that something was different. Perhaps it was that Javert did not carry a truncheon under his arm, or a cane. Perhaps it was that he held Valjean’s hand aloft as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Either way, Valjean found himself studying his companion more than he watched where he stepped.

So it was that he did not notice the clatter of a toy ball on the pavement ahead of him until he put his foot down upon it, and a child’s voice called out in agitation.

“Hey, M’sieur, that’s mine!”

“Oh!” Stooping, Valjean retrieved the toy. He looked up, a kindly smile on his face, only to be struck dumb by the sight which greeted him.

Reaching out greedily for the ball was a young boy in a bloodstained shirt who could have been no older than twelve. As he snatched the toy from Valjean’s suddenly limp fingers, it was all the man could do not to stare. Though the child’s hands around the ball were still whole, the left half of his face was missing; on one side, his lips quirked upwards in a mischievous smirk, and on the other, an empty skull grinned back at Valjean’s shocked expression.

Then the boy turned and as he ran off, Valjean caught sight of a fraying red and white cockard pinned to his back pocket. Straightening, Valjean watched the receding figure skip down an alleyway and disappear from sight.

Wide-eyed, he looked to Javert. “Was that...?” Valjean trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

The Inspector stood with his arms crossed, watching the encounter play out. “Yes,” he said, his face unreadable. “Where we are headed, you may run into more of them. I daresay they will be happier to see you again than they were me.”

Looking once more down the dark street, Valjean was reminded of another street and another night when the sky was blotted out by gunsmoke. He shivered. “Javert,” he said slowly, “after I freed you, after you left... how is it that you died?”

Javert cleared his throat and said gruffly, “We had best be moving along. Your friends will accuse me of having done something to you.”

“My friends?” Valjean asked, puzzled. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Come,” said the Inspector, taking Valjean once more by the wrist. He propelled them down the boulevard, and Valjean both marveled and shuddered at each new wonder they passed: carriages pulled by undead horses, shopkeepers selling spare limbs alongside funary suits, and rows upon rows of coffins, not all of them uninhabited. Valjean kept his eyes lowered, his living heart anxiously thudding.

When they came to a halt, it was outside of a ramshackle café. Javert pushed open the algae-ridden door, drawing Valjean inside while keeping a firm grip on his hand. At their entrance, a handful of the patrons looked up, but they soon lost interest and returned to their drinks. Nevertheless, Valjean was certain he recognized a few of the younger faces among them. Tallow candles filled the room with a dancing yellow light, and the remains of a cat slept on the piano in the corner.

The sound of the door falling shut caused another person in the crowd to turn their way, and this one got to her feet.

“Ah, Monsieur!” exclaimed a voice Valjean had not heard in many years. “There you are!”

“Fantine?” Valjean asked in amazement as the woman approached them. Her skin was as cold with death as Javert’s, but her smile was warm and radiant. “What are you doing here?”

“Monsieur le Inspector invited me,” she said, turning her smile on the man standing at Valjean’s side. “He knew how I wished to see you. Oh, and I do believe congratulations are in order!”

Flushing, Valjean muttered, “Er, thank you.” He looked at Javert. “You invited her?”

The Inspector appeared discomfited. “I thought you might like to talk together, on account of the gir- of Cosette.”

“And I have wanted so badly to thank you, Monsieur,” Fantine said earnestly. “You have raised my darling child better than I ever could have, and though I miss her dearly, it was a comfort to know she was with you.”

“She is the light of my life,” replied Valjean. “Not a day passes that I am not better for her company. And I know she wishes her mother could have been by her side for longer.”

“Come sit, Messieurs.” Fantine beckoned toward a table in the back corner of the room, and Valjean followed quickly after. His spirit was lighter than it had been in weeks; how unexpected, to see a friendly face in such an alien land.

Taking a seat, Fantine motioned to the place across from her. There was already a gentleman at the other end of the bench, and so Valjean murmured, “Your pardon, Monsieur,” as he made to join them.

That was when the gentleman turned, and Valjean had to wonder if perhaps he were dreaming after all.

“Jean,” said the man at the table. “How wonderful! Fantine and I were just discussing how long it has been.”

“Monseigneur Myriel?” The man was the color of ash, his hair wispy and white, and a pair of spectacles rested upon his nose. Now that they faced one another, Valjean saw he still wore his robes and vestments. Any words Valjean might have spoken dried up; his knees were suddenly weak.

“Sit, my good man,” Myriel laughed, patting the space beside him. “And you need not address me so formally—you are my brother, and always have been.”

Perching on the edge of the bench, Valjean leaned forward, his elation overpowering the onset of shyness. He had not ever expected to see the Bishop again, though the man was never far from his thoughts. It was an unlooked-for blessing, and he could not have been more grateful.

Valjean had almost forgotten about the Inspector standing quietly to one side until Myriel looked over.

“Javert, won’t you join us?”

An expression Valjean could not name passed over Javert’s face.

“Ah.” He tipped his hat respectfully and said, “Thank you, Monseigneur, but no, I shall not impose. Excuse me.” His eyes flickered to Valjean for a moment, and then with a stiff bow, he made swiftly for the door.

Myriel shook his head. “There is no telling with that man,” he said quietly, watching the Inspector as he vanished onto the street. Only when Javert had disappeared entirely did he turn back to Valjean. “It behooves me to say, I am so proud. You took my words to heart beyond what anyone could ever have asked of you.”

“I tried.” Valjean felt his eyelids prickle with wetness. “I know men cannot be made worthy of God’s forgiveness, but I tried. Is this Heaven? Or is it...” He trailed off, not quite able to believe that ghastly world was Paradise, but unwilling to contemplate the alternative.

The Bishop seemed to understand. His smile softened still further, and he laid a cold hand on Valjean’s shoulder.

“This is an in-between place,” he replied. “A waiting place, if you will. A world exists yet beyond this one, and that is where you will find Heaven.”

Fantine nodded in agreement. “We all have ties still to the living world. Only when we are free of those ties can we move on. You see, I love Cosette too much—I would not leave here without first seeing her.”

Perplexed, Valjean looked to Myriel. “Forgive me for prying, but... Monseigneur?”

Myriel chuckled and pulled him into an embrace. “Why, you, my dear man! Ever since my passing, I have been keeping watch. You do so much good, yet I am left to wonder—are you happy?”

The question caught him off-guard. Hesitating a moment, Valjean said, “I have had my share of happiness.”

“Hmm.” Something in Myriel’s expression suggested he was not wholly convinced. “Your daughter marries tomorrow, yes?”

“Fantine’s daughter,” Valjean corrected, his cheeks growing hot again. “I have merely been her caretaker.”

Reaching from across the table, Fantine clasped Valjean’s hand in hers. “You have been far more than that,” she said. “You are Cosette’s father, in spirit if not in blood.”

“I wish you could be there,” said Valjean, his lips curving upward in a melancholy smile. “She loves him like the sun itself.”

“And how is married life treating you, Jean?” Myriel asked keenly, peering over the rim of his glasses.

Valjean cleared his throat. “I will admit it comes as something of a surprise,” he replied, the understatement turning his words sour.

Myriel seemed to notice, but he nodded thoughtfully and said, “A surprise to you both, I would expect. It was kind of Javert to grant us some time alone to speak.”

Valjean frowned, the Bishop’s choice of words striking an odd chord with him. “Javert has never been kind.” He looked over at Fantine. “And I did not think to ever see the two of you on good terms.”

“He has done a great deal of reflection since he arrived here,” said Myriel. With a dry turn to his manner, he added, “I do not believe he has particularly enjoyed it. But he is learning.”

Shifting on the bench, Valjean lowered his head and his voice. “If I may ask, how is it that he came to be here? The papers all said...” He swallowed. “I do not know that I can believe what the papers said.”

At that, Fantine withdrew her hands, tucking them in her lap, and even Myriel’s serene features turned grave.

“It is... not a pleasant business,” said Fantine, glancing sidelong at the Bishop.

“Indeed, I am afraid not.” Myriel shook his head and gazed at Valjean sadly. “Nor do I know that it is our story to share.”

“Please,” Valjean implored. “There is already so much that I do not understand—how I came to be here, what is to happen next—and Javert did not so much as acknowledge the question when I asked it.”

Exchanging another look with Fantine, Myriel asked, “Have you considered that perhaps you would not be better off for knowing?” He inclined his head. “And yet I fear you are right to say you cannot otherwise understand. It is a difficult thing.”

Valjean shifted forward attentively. He felt he was on the brink of a revelation, that here was the missing link which would explain the rest and settle the fluttering in his stomach.

Looking at him steadily, Myriel said, “You know, of course, that upon arriving in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, you found the Inspector bound to a table, the young men at the barricade having discovered him as a spy.” When Valjean nodded, Myriel continued, “You know too that he was marked for death. The leader, Enjolras, asked for a volunteer to shoot him.”

“Yes.” Valjean did not like much to think of that night. “I remember.”

“You volunteered, but you did not shoot him. Instead you, Jean Valjean, set Inspector Javert free, the man whom you had cause more than anyone to hate, the man whom no-one could have blamed you for killing.”

“But I do not hate him,” Valjean murmured. “I have wished him away, yes, and I fear his authority, but I do not hate him.”

Myriel looked upon him with compassion. “Such may be the truth in your mind, but not so for him. And if you wish to understand how this came about, then you must begin to see matters through Javert’s eyes.”

Uncertainly, Valjean nodded.

“So you turned him loose, and the Inspector did not know what to think. He tried to return to work, but then he met with you on the river bank.”

“He allowed me to take Marius,” said Valjean quietly. “And to go home after. I thought it strange, but I was so tired...”

Myriel placed a hand on Valjean’s knee. “Are you certain you want to hear this? Fantine is right—it is a heavy knowledge to carry.”

Valjean inhaled slowly. “Tell me, please, for I think I must know.”

“Very well.” Myriel’s eyes were very gentle as he said, “Javert left you on the Rue de l’Homme Armé, for he found he could not arrest a man who saved his life. And so he went to the station house, and he resigned.”

“He resigned?” Valjean asked in shock.

“He did.” Myriel faltered a moment before he went on, “From the station, he walked until he came to the Pont au Change. You will recall how the current flows fastest there.”

Across the table, Fantine raised her head, looking at something past Valjean’s shoulder. Her eyes widened in warning just as a low voice said, “And then I jumped.”

Valjean startled, turning around in his seat to see Javert standing behind them. His arms were folded across his chest, and his expression lacked any of its earlier lukewarmth.

“And then I drowned.”

It was the baldness in his voice, the slight note of hopelessness, which elicited in Valjean’s chest a pang of sympathy, but Javert was not through.

“I see I have interrupted,” he said with a curl of the lip. Though his unbeating heart could not cast a flush above his collar or beneath his whiskers, there was nevertheless a certain air of chagrin in the set of the Inspector’s shoulders that caused Valjean to regret ever having broached the subject. “By all means continue talking as though I am not here. I only came to see if you wanted to go walking after all, but clearly you are otherwise engaged.”

Valjean got to his feet, but Javert did not wait for a response as he turned his back on the table. Instead, he walked with great strides toward the exit, leaving Valjean gaping in his wake as the door shut behind him for the third time that evening. It was then that Valjean began to consider the possibility he may have made a serious error.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Yeah okay, so I appropriated chapter titles from the brick just for the sake of this wordplay~~


	3. The Seventh Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, Valjean puts his foot in his mouth, cont.

The night air was cool as Valjean stepped out of the café. He had made his excuses, though neither Fantine nor Myriel seemed to mind his hasty departure. Rather, Fantine gave him a knowing look and a murmured word of well-wishing, offering no protest as he hurried after the shadow of the Inspector.

There on the street, the few passersby stopped and waved, but Valjean only returned their greetings in the most perfunctory of manners. His eyes scoured the boulevard until they caught sight of a tall figure sweeping around the corner of one of the many side streets, and he fell into pursuit. Ducking past a crumbling knee wall, Valjean nearly tripped as the street descended sharply down the side of a hill, but he paid little mind to his footing as the tail end of the Inspector’s top hat turned another corner ahead of him.

“Javert,” he called out. “J-Javert!” He stifled an exclamation as he stumbled over a loose cobblestone. Tenement houses pressed in close on both sides, and he stopped himself falling by grabbing onto a shuttered window sill as he chased down the next narrow lane.

A break in the houses gave way to a sort of city park, though it was more unsettling than any park Valjean had ever had the misfortune to happen upon before. Dead, twisted trees faded into the black sky, and for a moment Valjean faltered, wondering if he dared go any closer. Then he spotted the equally dark silhouette looking up at the canopy; Javert had paused, though he was still faced pointedly away from Valjean.

“Javert,” Valjean said as he approached. “Wait.”

Unmoving, the Inspector stood with his hands behind his back, his expression stony as he stared up at the bare branches of the trees.

“Forgive me,” said Valjean, coming to a stop at Javert’s side. “I would never have asked had I known -”

“You knew,” Javert interjected. His eyes did not depart from the high point on which they were fixed. “I do not doubt the papers laid it out in sordid detail.”

“But I did not believe it,” Valjean insisted. “I never guessed that you would...” His words faded into nothingness. Myriel had been right; he was not happier knowing. Instead he only had more questions, questions which seemed unpardonably insensitive to inquire upon.

For a time, Javert stood perfectly still and silent, without taking so much as a single breath to stir his chest. Then at last, he emitted a long, slow sigh.

“Will you walk with me?” he asked.

Valjean’s brow furrowed. He had expected many things—argument, censure, belligerence—but he had not anticipated that it would be the Inspector to extend an olive branch.

“If you like,” he said after a moment.

When Javert once again offered his arm, Valjean took it hesitantly. They began to travel down the path, and Valjean eyed the forest with foreboding.

Some of his discomfort must have showed; Javert glanced at him and scowled, saying, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Valjean replied, even as his hands felt clammy with sweat. He counted himself lucky Javert had not struck him for his earlier insolence. There was a time when daring to ask such personal questions would have been a punishable offense.

Still, Javert continued to defy his expectations. As the Inspector led the way down the deserted lane, he seemed to deflate somewhat, the lines around his mouth turning bitter with amusement.

“So,” he began. “You would ask me how I died?”

As Valjean made to protest, the Inspector shook his head.

“I ought to have expected as much. Tell me, what is it you would know? The humiliation of having the very foundations of the world ripped out from under one’s feet? The crushing weight of water in my lungs? The certainty even as I was in agony that every bit of it was deserved?”

It was definitely bitterness in Javert’s expression now, and for a moment the uneasiness Valjean felt was replaced by the desire to reach out and offer comfort, to smooth the despair from the corners of those lifeless eyes, but he could not quite find the courage. Instead, Valjean paused, and when Javert paused with him, he set his other hand on top of Javert’s deceased one.

“All that I would know,” Valjean said quietly, “is why.”

For a moment, Javert held his gaze, his expression distant and beleaguered. “Why?” he repeated, and looked away with a huff. “You would not understand.”

As they began to walk again, Valjean asked, “Was it because of me?”

The look Javert shot him then was dark. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered.

When Valjean continued to watch him askance, the Inspector grimaced and carried on, “You did not kill me, Valjean, even if you were the instrument by which God showed me the error of my ways. I think I was destined for this ending long before I met you.”

“But that does not explain...” Valjean shuffled his feet, sending a small stone bouncing ahead of them. He knew not how to phrase the question pressing on his heart, only that if he were somehow responsible for the Inspector’s condition, then perhaps their marriage was a more fitting form of retribution than Valjean had imagined.

They walked quietly for a time, the path winding along the outskirts of the park. An occasional lamp illuminated the long stretch of uneven pavement, while the unmoving air was stagnant as a mausoleum. What he would not have given for even a slight breeze, Valjean thought. Once more, he eyed the trees. There were relations which a husband was owed, and Valjean did not doubt that the Inspector, ever-conscious of his role in society, was more than aware of them. What if Javert were to demand his rights, were to press Valjean’s back to a trunk rough with bark and lay his mouth over Valjean’s own? It was surely only a matter of time before Javert asked such a thing. He thought of kissing cold, dead lips and shuddered with disgust, yet there was nothing to be done. He was a stranger in a strange land; if he ran, how would he ever find his way back home?

Eventually, Javert slowed to a halt. There was a bench positioned within the blue glow of a gas lamp, and he gestured for Valjean to sit. Then he settled himself beside, arranging his greatcoat around him so it did not wrinkle.

Just as Valjean was beginning to formulate a few uncertain words, Javert broke the silence.

“All my life, I knew right from wrong,” he said, gazing at his lap. His hair was coming loose again, but Javert did not appear to notice. “There was never ambiguity, never any cause for doubt. If I was harsh, then at least I was not insincere.”

He paused, and Valjean swallowed the urge to pass comment. Overhead, a bat winged its way toward the forest.

When the Inspector continued, he spoke in the same unflinching tone which had affected Valjean in the café. “You took out the knife, and I expected to die.” It was understood by each to which incident Javert was referring. “It would be slow—I have seen men before with their throats cut—and I had no expectation of mercy. When you freed me...” He shook his head. “Nothing was simple anymore. I could let you go and defy what I believed in, or I could arrest you and defy what I knew to be right.”

“So it is my fault,” Valjean murmured. “I should have thought -”

“I told you not to flatter yourself,” said Javert irritably. “The last thing I require is your pity.”

“But I -”

“You revealed for me the depths of my transgressions, yes. But whatever you might think, you are not the only thief I have pursued these many years, nor the only convict I have sought to put back behind bars. And if it is possible that you are, somehow, a good man, then how many others have I wrongfully condemned? My sins are beyond number—I could not add your destruction to the charter.”

His tone softening, Javert added, “My choice was my own, Valjean. I will not have you holding yourself accountable for my death.”

Valjean bit his lip. “Then this is not...?” The word on the tip of his tongue was ‘revenge’, but nothing the Inspector had done struck him as particularly vengeful. There were a great many ways Javert had demonstrated restraint when it was not required of him; only now was Valjean beginning to see why.

“This is not?” Javert prompted, raising an eyebrow.

Trying again, Valjean said instead, “You do not prefer to hold me captive?”

Javert turned to stare at him, a sharp crease appearing between his brows. “I leapt into the river rather than arrest you,” he replied. “Why should I now prefer that?”

“Oh.” For some reason, Valjean felt very small.

The trouble was that if not his liberty, Valjean could not guess what Javert wanted of him. And it wasn’t as though his freedom was so hard to take; he had not the strength left for escape, after all. Moreover, why had the Inspector taken him away to that desolate otherworld if not to keep him under his control?

Yet despite his misgivings and the man’s tempestuous moods, Javert’s presence could be tolerated. Sitting side by side on the park bench, the quiet between them grew almost companionable. Or if nothing else, it lacked the tension of their previous exchanges, a development for which Valjean could not help but find himself grateful.

Whether due to the hour or the omnipresent darkness, the park was empty of other visitors. It was a sort of relief, though the weather, if it could be called that, was still not to his liking; in time, Valjean found that he shivered. He pulled his topcoat closer around him, sliding his hands under his armpits for warmth, but that did nothing to dispel the chill setting into his bones. Was it always so frigid in the Land of the Dead? He was about to suggest they return to their walk, if only to liven his sluggish pulse, when Javert looked over. There was a frown on his face, but it was less one of displeasure than of consideration.

Studying him for a moment, Javert’s frown deepened, until he wordlessly began to unbutton his coat. Valjean watched, perplexed, as Javert slid his arm out of one sleeve. Then the Inspector brushed against Valjean’s hair as he leaned over and wrapped the garment around the two of them, taking pains to tuck it in snugly. Valjean’s breath caught in his chest. He sat fixed on the bench, Javert at his side and the greatcoat around his shoulder, unsure of what to say or do. Gradually, two things occurred to him. The first was that Javert himself was no colder to the touch than the night air. The second was that his shivers were abating, eased by the warmth of the heavy wool.

“Thank you,” said Valjean, and he meant it.

The corner of Javert’s mouth lifted in what passed for a crooked smile. That was when he discovered his hair ribbon slipping, and his eyes rolled in their sockets. Raising a hand to his queue, he pinched one end between two bony fingers and tugged; the bow unraveled completely. It was as he attempted to re-tie it, however, that the Inspector ran into some trouble. He could not quite grasp the silky material, and he grunted in frustration as he struggled to knot a fresh bow.

“Here,” said Valjean, batting his hand away. “Allow me.”

Then it was Javert who sat very still as Valjean combed his fingers through his hair, scooping it back into a neat ponytail. Quickly, an inexplicable heat rising to his face, Valjean wound the ribbon around and tied it tight.

“That’s better,” he said, pulling back before it could seem he was purposefully lingering. “It should last longer this time.”

Murmuring a demure word of thanks, Javert looked again at his lap. “My body is... not what it used to be,” he said. “It has taken some adjustment.”

Valjean did not speak, but he moved a little closer and pulled the greatcoat a little tighter, and after another moment had passed, Javert leaned in as well, their shoulders touching. Stifling a snort, Valjean wondered what Cosette would think if she could see him, he who so far as she knew had no living friends or relatives to keep his company. Glancing at the skeletal hand which now rested on his knee, Valjean supposed that such an assessment remained technically the truth.

It was in thinking of Cosette that Valjean’s despondency returned. She would be terribly worried when he left without coming back. It was not right to trouble her so, not on the eve of her wedding. If he could only offer some excuse it might put her mind at ease, though how to explain himself he was unsure. He was reflecting upon these things when the idea suddenly came.

“Javert,” he began, testing the waters before posing what he knew to be a prickly question. The Inspector merely turned to him.

“I was thinking,” Valjean went on slowly, “that you should meet Cosette.”

“I? Meet Cosette?” Javert looked at him in bewilderment. “Whyever would you wish that?”

Dipping his head, Valjean explained, “She will not understand why I have disappeared. If she sees that I now have a... a husband of my own, she will not worry so much that I am gone.”

Javert was frowning again, this time with an edge that suggested he was less than thrilled by the turn their conversation had taken. “It is not natural for the dead to walk in the Land of the Living,” he said. “It goes against the order of things.”

“It is no less unnatural that I should walk in the Land of the Dead,” Valjean pointed out.

“You married me. That is different,” Javert retorted mulishly.

“By accident,” said Valjean.

Javert’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes. Lest I forget for even a moment, you must remind me that our marriage was an accident, nothing more than a mistake on your part.”

He got to his feet, pulling his coat along with him. As its comforting weight left Valjean’s shoulders, the cold air hit him in a wave.

Caught off-guard by the sudden venom in the man’s tone, Valjean stammered, “Yes, a mistake. God above knows that I would never have married you deliberately.”

Far from producing the relief Valjean expected to see at this pronouncement, the look in Javert’s eyes before they went carefully blank seemed almost to be one of hurt. “Of course. I suppose I should not be surprised.”

Valjean climbed to his feet, looking at the Inspector in confusion. “Do you... do you wish to be married to me?”

Javert looked at the sky as he replied, “It matters not what I wish. We are married— _accidentally_ as you are so keen on pointing out, yet I for one will act according to my duty as your husband. You wish to see your daughter and obtain her blessing? Very well, I will not keep that from you.”

Though Valjean opened his mouth to speak, Javert did not allow it. He glowered as he went on, “But we shall have to speak to Monseigneur Myriel, for I have not the power to travel between worlds at will.”

With that, he turned and began to stride back toward town without so much as glancing to see whether Valjean followed, or whether he stood frozen in the blue lamp light.

 

***

 

“Return to the Land of the Living?” Myriel puckered his lips in consternation, looking from Valjean to Javert and back. Fantine had gone, but in returning to the café, they found the Bishop still seated at the table, engaged in conversation with a young man whom Valjean recognized as the insurgent leader, Enjolras. “Now why on earth would you want to do that? Inspector, you should know such things aren’t done.”

“That is what I tried to tell him,” said Javert grimly. “Yet he insisted. He thinks his daughter worries, and he would abate her fears by introducing us.”

Myriel hummed, examining Valjean’s face. Valjean swallowed. His falsehood to Javert was a small one, and surely that was preferable to giving Cosette reason for grief. Even so, guilt gnawed at his stomach, along with the no-less-mystifying knowledge that Javert’s hand rested on the hollow of his back as a lover’s might.

“Well,” Myriel said at last, “there is one way. You two had best follow me.”

With a quiet word to the proprietor, Myriel led them back into the kitchens, where a rotund skeleton in an apron was rolling out dough. A number of skull-shaped cookies lined a baking tray to the right. As their little group entered, the baker looked up and grinned; Valjean supposed it was difficult for a skeleton to wear any other expression.

“Ah, Charles, you’ve brought friends,” said the baker. “What can I do for you? There’s cookies made fresh if you are hungry.”

“Just a crow’s egg, if you please,” Myriel replied.

The skeleton looked at them with new interest. “Doing a spot of haunting, are we? Best of luck with that one.” So saying, they offered the Bishop a bluish, speckled egg from a carton. “Do take a cookie,” they added, pointing Valjean toward a platter of finished pastries. “You living sorts are always forgetting to eat.”

Hesitantly, Valjean did as he was bid. The treat looked palatable enough, and it was hours past dinner. He bit into it delicately as Myriel studied the crow’s egg from every angle. At last, the Bishop looked up.

“Stand hand in hand,” he said, and Javert wrapped his fingers firmly around Valjean’s. “Do not grow accustomed to this,” he warned, looking each of them in the eyes. “The worlds are separate for good reason—the dead may not cross over but once in a blue moon. Say what you must, for you will not have another opportunity for some time.”

Valjean thought of his daughter and tried not to weep. What difference did it make, after all, when once she was a Baroness he would not see her regardless?

Turning to Javert, Myriel said, “To return, you only need wish to do so. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Javert, stepping closer to Valjean’s side.

“In that case, good luck.”

The Bishop lifted the egg into the air and cracked it in two. He made a complicated gesture, and then a great wind rose around them, and the kitchen vanished from sight.

 

***

 

“I had forgotten how beautiful they are.”

Valjean pushed himself up groggily, his head spinning. He was kneeling in the dirt, traces of snow mingled with the leaves under his hands, and as he got to his feet he could see his breath; this was what the weather was meant to be in February. Looking around, Valjean found that he stood in the clearing by the river, the same clearing where Javert was buried. And there was Javert himself, standing a stone’s throw away with his head tipped back, staring at the sky as he was sometimes wont to do.

“Pardon?” Valjean asked, taking a step forward as the dizziness passed.

“The stars,” said Javert, his mouth slightly agape with wonder. “I had forgotten...”

Glancing upwards, Valjean beheld the tiny silver pinpricks of light scattered in the sky. “I see,” he said, his shoes crunching in the frost-dusted leaves as he drew closer.

Javert’s features were the softest Valjean had ever seen them, the distant twinkling reflecting in his eyes. As Valjean came to a stop alongside him, the Inspector rested a hand on his shoulder. The touch was light, neither forceful nor possessive, and Valjean found he was not burdened by it as he too gazed up at the firmament.

“I have been in the dark for so long,” Javert murmured, his lips scarcely moving as he spoke. “I used to watch them whenever I took an evening patrol, but there are no stars belowground. They remind me of...” He lapsed into silence, yet Valjean thought he understood the quiet, unspoken longing in Javert’s voice.

At last, the Inspector tore himself away. “Where are we going?” he asked, surveying the clearing.

“You know the place,” replied Valjean. “The Rue des Filles du Calvaire.”

“That idiot lawyer?” Javert asked, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. “You must be joking. Surely that fool died of his wounds, unless your daughter also elects to wed a dead man.”

“He lives,” Valjean sighed, turning towards the street. “Cosette marries him tomorrow.”

“My condolences,” Javert muttered. “Though perhaps I ought to console myself, as that will likewise make him my son-in-law.”

Leading the way out of the wood, Valjean nearly chuckled at that thought. Javert as a father-in-law to anyone was absurd enough, but the idea of his making conversation with the bumbling young Baron was positively ludicrous; Valjean could not decide which of them would be the least pleased.

From behind, Javert asked, “Is it far?”

“Not terribly,” said Valjean, though once more his stomach began to churn. Doubt besieged him, both at the deception and at what he had to do.

“So long as we needn’t cross that damn bridge,” Javert muttered, but it seemed to be a comment meant for himself, and Valjean did not reply as they came out of the trees and onto the quay. Fortunately, their path took them away from the river, and they wound through the snaking city streets.

Even at so late an hour, Paris was never truly asleep; those poor and homeless found in every city, as well as the occasional carriage, were common sights into the wee hours of the morning. It could be said that this was why the uneasy feeling in Valjean’s stomach only grew as they advanced, for they met no-one. The fog of before had dissipated entirely—And had it been only earlier that same evening that Valjean sat in the church, no thoughts in his head of the Inspector, no weight on his heart but for his daughter? It seemed that Javert had been at his side for a thousand years; perhaps it was only natural that the grave could not separate them.

Javert, for his part, followed without saying a word. His face disappeared under the shadow of his hat, and his hands tucked into the pockets of his greatcoat. Even had they come upon another living soul, no-one would have taken Javert for dead. But perhaps filled with the ominous sense that something unholy was approaching, any beggar or urchin they might have met steered clear of their path, and then the streets gave themselves over to the charming boulevards of the neighborhood known as Les Marais.

As they came close to their destination, Valjean felt his heart speed its palpitations until it was almost painful. Then the sign for the Rue des Filles du Calvaire came into sight, and he stopped. Javert stopped with him, looking around curiously.

“Perhaps you had best wait here,” said Valjean, as though the idea had only just occurred to him. “I will go ahead and prepare Cosette—What with your, ah, condition, she may take fright if she is not forewarned.”

Tipping his head slightly to one side, Javert asked, “You wish me to stay here?”

“Just so that I can explain,” Valjean said hurriedly. “I’ll go on ahead, and come back for you when she is prepared.”

“I am to stay here,” Javert said again. “And you will... come back.” There was a trace of vulnerability in his voice that gave Valjean pause.

“Why yes,” he replied. “I shall not be gone long.”

“Then I will wait.” Javert leaned his back against the stone wall of one of the houses, looking for all the world like his old self, lurking until an unfortunate ruffian emerged from hiding.

“Thank you,” said Valjean, backing away. “It will just be a moment, and I shall return.” Then he pivoted, and did not quite run down the street towards the Gillenormand residence.

The truth was that Jean Valjean had no intention whatsoever of presenting Javert to Cosette. In point of fact, it was not even his intention to see the girl for himself. He had arrived at a solution, one so simple yet which fulfilled all of his purposes, and it was with this end in mind that he rapped on the knocker of number six.

Considering that it was now past midnight, Valjean fully expected to be met by one of the servants—Basque perhaps, with his pompous manner—but when the door was thrown open almost immediately, the man standing there was in fact the young Pontmercy himself, his eyes wide and his hair disheveled.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent!” he said in amazement, staring quite astounded at his visitor.

“Monsieur le Baron,” Valjean murmured, bowing his head. “You are just the man I wanted to see. Pray tell, is Cosette awake? I should not like to disturb her with an old man’s peculiar hours.”

Still appearing quite taken aback, Marius said faintly, “Why, I cannot say whether she wakes! She has gone to look for you, Monsieur—the message I received stated that she would stay the night on the Rue de l’Homme Armé in case you should come home.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Valjean nodded and said, “I shall not trouble you for long. There is something I must say, my son, and then you shall see me here no longer.”

“What madness is this?” asked Marius. “You are welcome any day of the year, father, you know that is so.”

“Marius, you must listen to me,” Valjean said, his eyes darting nervously over his shoulder. “I am soon to depart this world forever, but even were that not the case, I would have to remove myself from this place, as a matter of honesty.”

Marius gaped at him. “Honesty? What are you saying?”

“What I am saying is very simple.” Valjean took a deep breath, the confession a lump of lead in his throat. “I was in the galleys. My name is not Fauchelevent, but Valjean—I am a thief, and I have broken my parole.”

Though he made as if to speak, no words issued from Pontmercy’s mouth.

“You see, I am not Cosette’s father,” Valjean went on. “She was an orphan. I took her in, but now she has you, and that is well. The dowry money—it was her family’s, and now it is hers. As for me, I tell you I am going away. No-one shall ever learn what I am, and there will be no scandal for you, Monsieur.”

Finally finding his voice, Marius asked, “But... but where shall you go?” It was _‘tu’_ which he said, and Valjean tried not to wince at the change.

“Fear not,” said Valjean. “It is far from here. There is a... commitment I have made that compels me hence. You may tell Cosette I am on a journey, she will believe that. I leave at once for Calais, you shall say, and cannot attend the ceremony.”

Whatever reply Marius might have made turned into helpless spluttering as he caught sight of something in the street, and Valjean’s stomach dropped in dawning comprehension.

“So I asked myself,” a voice began icily, “why might he go on alone and in such a great hurry?”

Valjean closed his eyes; of course Javert had not been content to wait.

“And I answered myself, Jean Valjean is doing what he does best—running away.”

Marius made a terrified little squeak in his throat, and Valjean opened his eyes again to see him grab hold of the door frame for support.

“You,” Marius gasped, his eyes wide.

“Ah,” said Valjean, gesturing vaguely. “I believe you are already acquainted with my new husband, Monsieur le Inspector Javert?”

Apprehensively, Valjean glanced back at where Javert stood behind him. The Inspector snarled; he strode forward to grab Valjean by the collar, yanking him around until they faced one another.

“I knew you had your reservations,” Javert said in a dangerous whisper. “I knew you had cold feet the very moment you saw my face! But this? To trick me into coming here so you could run to Calais of all places...!”

“Javert,” Valjean said evenly, “you did not hear -”

“I do not understand,” Marius interrupted, still looking as though his knees might give out at any moment. “You are dead!” He pointed at Javert, his hand visibly shaking.

“And you are alive,” said Javert, looking over with a sneer. “The irony is nauseating.”

“He-he shot you!” Marius persisted, looking between the Inspector and Valjean. “At the barricade!”

“Is that what you think?” Javert straightened, continuing to hold Valjean close but turning his glare on the boy instead. “Do not be a fool, he did not shoot me, he let me go. And then he got stuck with an ingrate like you for a son-in-law—I wager you have not even thanked him for saving your life -”

“Saving my life?” Marius repeated even as Valjean interjected, “Perhaps we should go now.”

“I will deal with you presently,” growled Javert, looking daggers at Valjean. “But first -” He towered over Marius, who gulped. “Yes, Valjean let me go.” His tone turned brittle as he said, “And so I killed myself. And then he married me. Mind your bride does not have second thoughts, it seems to be a family trait.”

With that, he turned back around and took hold of Valjean’s wrist. The leaves in the gutter rose into a frenzy as the wind swirled around them, and Valjean lost sight of number six entirely as he was wrenched once more out of the living world.


	4. An Apparition to Marius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interlude.

Where he stood in the doorway, Marius looked on slack-jawed with horror as M. Fauchelevent—Valjean—disappeared from sight in the arms of a phantom. It was outrageous! It was a nightmare! As for Valjean himself, that too was a nightmare, the revelation with which Marius had been imparted. The notion that the man he had come to think of as family, as a father, should be anything other than what he seemed was abhorrent. And on the heels of that disclosure came the monstrous apparition which had emerged from the shadows in the street...

What evil witchcraft was afoot that an undead police spy should appear on his doorstep? Perhaps Valjean was possessed, stalked by the restless spirit of the man whose life he had ended on the Mondétour lane. Yet Javert himself declared that Valjean had let him go. Let him go, though the man was dead all the same. Dead, though risen from his grave! And did not Javert also state that Valjean had saved Marius’ life as well? It made a terrible sort of sense, for the white-haired man had been at the barricade. Marius trembled; how many earthquakes could one soul withstand in an evening?

He gawked at the now-vacant street, unwilling to turn away and certain he would be unable to sleep if he tried. It was like this—stunned, terrified, shaken—that Basque found him some time later.

“Monsieur le Baron,” said Basque, nearly dropping the candlestick he carried in his surprise. “Whatever are you doing awake at this hour, and standing half-dressed in the street no less?”

Wild-eyed, Marius turned to his servant. “He was there,” he babbled, indicating vehemently the front stoop. “Monsieur Fauchelevent! Only he claimed he was someone else, and then there was another man, one whom was dead—Did he say they were married?—and then they evaporated into thin air -”

At this outpouring, Basque’s countenance grew quite alarmed.

“Monsieur has been sleepwalking,” the servant told him. “Let us get you to bed.”

Holding his candle aloft, he made to take hold of Marius’ elbow and guide him firmly away from the door, but Marius shrugged him off.

“Where is grandfather?” the young Baron demanded.

Basque’s face went paler still. “Why, he sleeps, Monsieur! It is...” He checked his pocket watch. “...just past three in the morning.”

“Well, wake him!” Rubbing at his temples, Marius muttered, “Something very strange is going on.”

Basque bowed and began to back away on the pretense of fetching M. Gillenormand; by the look which he wore, Marius thought it more likely he meant to fetch the asylum instead. Then the Baron thought of something else, and he held up his hand. Basque stopped in his tracks.

“That night I was borne back here injured,” Marius began. “I have heard it was a man who brought me. What did he look like?”

Basque wrung his hands. “Why, you know I cannot say, Monsieur. He was filthy, and it was dark. I could tell nothing of who he was, only that he looked like a murderer shown up on our doorstep!”

“And no-one knows any more than that?”

When Basque indicated that this was so, Marius hung his head in defeat. Yet still he insisted Basque should go and wake M. Gillenormand, and so it was that the unhappy servant nevertheless yielded to his master’s wishes and climbed the stairs to the bedchambers above. Marius, in the meanwhile, waited in the antechamber where he paced fretfully and sometimes ran his fingers through his hair until it stood on end.

Eventually, the glow of candlelight returned to the top of the stairs and Basque descended, leading Marius’ grandfather behind. M. Gillenormand wore his nightshirt, and he was plainly still half-asleep as he alighted at the foot of the staircase.

“Marius, what is happening?” asked Gillenormand through a yawn. “It is usual to feel a sense of anticipation the night before one marries, or so I have been told, but this is a bit much!”

“Grandfather,” said Marius breathlessly. “Monsieur Fauchelevent was here!”

At that, Gillenormand’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Eh? What’s that?”

“He was here,” Marius said again. “He said...” Marius hesitated. Perhaps it was better not to repeat what the man had said. “He came to see me,” the young man amended. “We were talking. And then...”

“My boy, I do not understand,” said his grandfather. “Monsieur Fauchelevent, here? It is the dead of night! You did not invite him in? Truly, some days I think you were born entirely without sense.”

“But you must listen!” Marius exclaimed. “He is in danger! We must - We must do something!”

“In danger?” Gillenormand’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “What is this nonsense?”

“There was another man. Only he was not a man, he was a corpse!” Marius gazed at his grandfather, imploring him to understand. “And this creature grabbed hold of Fauchelevent, and then they disappeared together, like ghosts in the street!”

His grandfather began to laugh. “Ah Marius,” he said. “Basque is quite right—you were sleepwalking, and had a dream. Fear not, my dear child, these things do happen, and you have my word I shall not tell your betrothed, though it is most amusing.”

“I tell you, it is the truth!” Once more Marius began to pace, this time out of frustration. “He is in danger, we must help him!”

For if it were true, if the man he once thought of as M. le Blanc had indeed rescued both the Inspector and Marius himself from the barricades, then Marius owed Valjean a debt, no matter what shadows obfuscated the man’s past. To do nothing was no option at all.

Now Gillenormand was beginning to grow angry. “Come, Marius, it is either far too late or far too early for this. Return to bed at once and forget such foolishness.”

“Return to bed?” Marius shuddered. “How am I to sleep knowing that the dead walk the earth?”

Changing tactics, his grandfather said instead, “You must lay down, boy, else you shall snore your way through the ceremony.”

“The ceremony?”

“Your wedding day!” Gillenormand shook his head despairingly. “You have talked of nothing else for weeks! Has this dream truly disturbed you so that it has driven darling Cosette from your mind?”

“The wedding,” said Marius, a solution suddenly presenting itself with crystalline clarity. “Cosette! Thank you, grandfather!”

He rushed for the door, ignoring the startled shouts of Gillenormand and Basque behind him.

“A carriage,” Marius called over his shoulder. “I must have a carriage at once!”

He ran out into the Rue des Filles du Calvaire without pausing to close the door behind him. Though he heard his name, he never slowed as he ventured into the street. Cosette was an angel from Heaven, Marius thought. There was no darkness in that world or the next which her light could not overcome, and she knew her father like no-one else.

She would know what to do.

 

***

 

The carriage rattled to a halt on the Rue de l’Homme Armé, and Marius disembarked hurriedly. He cast a skittish glance about him; the street was deserted, but that did not inspire the same comfort it might have provided on any other night. Instead, the young Baron got the impression that perhaps the best place to be was indoors, the locks bolted and the shutters drawn. He paid the driver what he was owed and made a hasty path toward the front steps of number seven, belatedly recalling that he had never properly dressed for leaving the house.

Arriving at the door, Marius pounded the wood with his fist, suddenly desperate to get off the street as quickly as he could; who knew what other horrors might be lingering in the shadows, just waiting for a hapless traveler to fall into their clutches? He prayed someone was awake to hear him, and indeed, more than a little time had passed before he received a response. Eventually, however, the door creaked open and a woman peered out suspiciously. It was the housekeeper, Toussaint; when she saw it was Marius, she quickly drew the door open wider.

“Master Pontmercy!” said Toussaint. “What are you doing here at this hour?” She scrutinized him in the manner of housekeepers, taking in his mussed hair and indecorous attire, and Marius knew how he must look, like a lover arriving late at night for an illicit tryst.

Bowing, Marius tried surreptitiously to flatten his hair as he said, “Forgive the intrusion, Madame. I am here to see Cosette.”

Toussaint’s frown deepened, and Marius flushed scarlet, realizing he had only confirmed the woman’s suspicions.

“It is an emergency,” he explained, pushing down the nervous stutter which threatened to come out instead. “Concerning Monsieur F-Fauchelevent.”

Did the housekeeper know anything of her employer’s past? For that matter, did Cosette? But no—Valjean had made it clear he intended to leave for his daughter’s safety. Surely he would have kept his secrets from her for the same reason.

At the name ‘Fauchelevent’, Toussaint’s eyes widened, and she ushered Marius inside. The boy declined her offers of tea, so instead he waited impatiently in the stuffed armchair as the housekeeper went to wake Cosette.

A creak on the landing announced the girl’s arrival, as did the sweet voice which cried, “Marius!”

Marius raised his head to see Cosette holding her skirts as she quickly scampered down the stairs. She had dressed, a fact for which Marius was grateful; the idea of seeing his not-yet-wedded wife in a nightgown restored the flush in full force to his extremities.

“Cosette,” said Marius, getting to his feet at once.

“Toussaint says you have news of Papa?” There were circles under the girl’s eyes, and Marius wondered whether she had gotten any more sleep than he had. “Oh, say he is alright—he has not come home all evening!”

“Something has happened,” said Marius, as of yet feeling the icy grip of fear on his heart. “And no-one whom I’ve told has believed a word of it.”

“Tell me everything, please,” said Cosette, gripping the back of the sofa for support as she gazed at him with dismay. “He is sometimes eccentric, yes, but never would I have believed he might choose to disappear on a night so important as tonight!”

Marius beckoned to the cushion. “Perhaps if we were to sit,” he suggested. “What I saw was most alarming—I find myself shaking still!”

Looking no less dismayed for this declaration, Cosette scooted around the side of the sofa, settling just across the corner from Marius and taking hold of his hand.

“It was already very late,” Marius began, “and I had given up on sleep. How could I retire, knowing you were here and in such distress?”

Cosette gave him a small smile at that and squeezed his fingers.

“So I decided to wait, either for the sun or your father, whichever decided to show first. I took a seat in the antechamber, and for a long time, there was nothing. I did not so much as hear a carriage pass by in the street.”

“And then?” Cosette waited on tenterhooks, her lips white with worry.

“And then there was suddenly a knock on the door! I still had heard no carriage.”

“Was it Papa? Papa prefers to walk, perhaps that is why.” Leaning forward, Cosette added imploringly, “Oh, my love, say you have seen him!”

“It was he,” Marius conceded. “And he had quite an unsettled affect about him. When I opened the door, he told me...” The young man paused only for a moment before he committed to the half-truth Valjean had crafted. “He told me he was going on a journey, and that he had to leave at once. I was to tell you he was bound for Calais.”

“Calais?” Cosette dropped Marius’ hand, getting again to her feet. “No, that cannot be! We must go after him at once and put a stop to this!”

“I would agree with you,” said Marius, though he was certain of no such thing, “but I fear that is not the end of it.”

At this, Cosette returned slowly to her seat. “You said something happened,” she said quietly. “It is something bad, isn’t it.”

“As we were talking...” Marius bit his lip, uncertain of how to proceed. It did seem fantastical; only the numbing terror which lingered in his veins convinced him that Basque was mistaken and he had not dreamt the entire encounter. “I saw a figure emerge from the shadows. At first, I took it for some ill-willed prowler, but -” He drew a breath. “It was a man. A man I know to be dead.”

Cosette’s pretty features pinched. “Marius, what are you saying?”

Lowering his gaze, Marius explained, “In all that has come to pass since the beginning of June—my convalescence, your arrival like Saint Rita, the preparations for our wedding—it did not once cross my mind, but your father was at the barricade.” He shook his head. “I recall so little which is concrete, yet now I am certain of that much. And there was another man, an Inspector of the Police. He was a spy, and Fauchelevent was sent to execute him.”

“No,” Cosette gasped, covering her mouth. “Papa would never!”

“This spy was a man called Javert,” said Marius grimly. “We had met before. I heard a shot, and I was certain that Javert was dead, or soon would be. Yet tonight, I saw him again. This Inspector—it was he who appeared out of the shadows!”

With a sigh of relief, Cosette replied, “So Papa did not harm him after all!”

“That well may be,” Marius agreed. “Indeed, I believe the Inspector said something of the kind. Perhaps your father merely fired a shot into the air. But this is where I must beg you to believe me—Inspector Javert remains dead, Cosette.”

Cosette looked at him blankly. “I do not understand.”

Putting his head in his hands, Marius murmured, “In that regard we are evenly matched.” He went on, “The man was a corpse, there is no other way to describe it. His flesh was rotting, bones were all that was left of his fingers, and he admitted to it as well, that though your father had spared him, he afterwards took his own life. Yet he moved, and spoke, and was quite furious to see the two of us talking.”

Silently, Cosette crossed herself. “Go on.”

“They claimed to be married, of all the things, and then Javert grabbed him, and they vanished right before my eyes! Don’t you see, there is some black magic at play—the corpse has found a way to cling to the living world. Who knows what he will do now that he has taken one soul for his own already!”

“But where has he taken him?” Cosette asked in despair.

“Who can say?” Marius massaged his forehead, his troubled thoughts tumbling one over the other. “I think I owe him my life—there is no-one but Fauchelevent who could have delivered me safely from the Rue de la Chanvrerie. I would save him if I could, but what chance does a mortal man stand when faced with the undead?”

Cosette pondered this. Though her complexion was still quite drawn, her composure was remarkable considering the news which had been sprung upon her.

At last, she raised her head. “It is very simple,” Cosette said. “At daybreak, we shall go to the church. We shall go to the church, and we will ask the priest how it is that the living may marry the dead.”

 

***

 

The whole of the house on the Marais was still and dark. It was a tremendous property, far in excess of what was required by its few residents, and down every hall were more doors concealing treasures uncounted. The Baron du Thénard traversed these corridors like a panther, his footfalls silent upon the thick carpets.

When he heard that the Baron, arriving in Paris earlier than was his intention, had no place in mind at which to stay, M. Gillenormand had offered him one of his own rooms. This generous and neighborly gesture was surely the result of the wedding, which had instilled in Gillenormand a joy of the sort he had not known ever since the young grisettes ceased to look his way. The Baron had graciously accepted the offer, and one would have had to observe very closely indeed to notice the slight curl in his lip as they shook hands.

It went without saying that as with so much of his life, the title of Baron was nothing more than a sham. Thénardier, as he was most properly known, was a man of singular passion, and that passion was for wealth. Attending the weddings of the bourgeois was simply one of the least despicable ways he was willing to go about obtaining it. He knew the name Gillenormand by reputation; a rich man, yes, but one whose funds were tied up in old debts. There was gold to be pilfered there only for so long as the old dog lived, and Thénardier was pleased to help himself to the lot while he could.

What he had not expected—what he had scarcely even dared dream of—was to be presented with the opportunity to acquire a truly substantial sum. Yet no sooner had he set foot in the church than his conman’s senses began to buzz with excitement; he recognized the blonde brat at the altar, and he knew well the girl’s father. It was all he could do to keep the elation from his face as he identified the white-haired man in the front row. Valjean was the sort of rich man Thénardier liked: incredibly well-to-do, and easily blackmailed. It was for the best that he kept his voice low; Valjean had not even turned to look at him.

There in the dusk of night, Thénardier hunted. He had overheard rumors among the household that the girl was in fact a millionairess, Valjean having made his fortune into her dowry. Somewhere there was hidden an inheritance to be had, an inheritance of nearly six-hundred-thousand francs, and it would crown him a king. If he could only find it, he would be long gone before first light.

With that thought, Thénardier lengthened his stride.

Dawn was approaching.


	5. The Dead are in the Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen the AMAZING art [shenno-r on tumblr](http://shenno-r.tumblr.com/post/180322558729/the-corpse-bride-au-by-thelifeofemm-left-me-with) did for this fic, you absolutely should, I am in LOVE!
> 
> Also, thanks so much for all your comments and kudos, it means a lot! /o\

The bedroom was deafeningly quiet; they had arrived again in Javert’s apartment with a tremendous gust, only for Javert to shove him aside immediately and march to the window. Valjean pushed his windswept hair from his face, wetting his lips as he looked on warily. The Inspector stood facing the wall, his arms crossed tight to his chest. Nobody spoke; the pervading sense of betrayal was a tangible presence in the room.

At last the Inspector raised his shoulders, and Valjean braced himself for the inevitable onslaught to follow.

“You lied to me,” Javert said.

Valjean scratched at his elbow. “Javert...”

“You told me you wished to visit your daughter, and you lied.” The man laughed, a mirthless, broken sound. “I trusted you. God knows it wasn’t easy, but I was trying. And then you ran, just as you always do—every time, Valjean, _every time!_ ”

He whipped around, his pale face livid with fury, but there was a redness about his eyes which caused Valjean to raise a hand in supplication.

“Javert, please, I -”

“Spare me your excuses and your worthless apologies, I do not wish to hear them.” Glowering, Javert went on, “From the moment you arrived here, I have done everything in my power to set you at ease, but you have spurned my attentions left and right. You fear me—oh very well, but I am not the one who has been cruel. You have been cruel, Valjean, and two can play at that game if it is how you prefer it.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Valjean made to interject, but Javert was having none of it. Drawing himself to his full height, the Inspector demanded, “Do you know what it is like to be dead?”

Wordlessly, Valjean shook his head no.

Javert sneered as his tirade increased steadily in pitch and volume. “Of course you do not. It is like this—If I touch a candle flame, I do not feel it burn me. If you cut me with a knife, I do not bleed. If you shoot me in the heart, I will stay standing—I cannot feel _anything_ anymore!”

In the ringing silence which met this exclamation, Javert added very softly, “But I can feel this.”

“Inspector,” Valjean said awkwardly, attempting a placating tone, “surely you cannot be happy we are married. I am a convict, a galley slave—you loathe everything there is to know about me.”

“I was happy married to you,” said Javert, staring at the floor. “For a moment. I thought, at last I could apologize, at last I could settle this debt, or if not, I would at least have the opportunity to try. Well, I tried. I have tried every last thing I could think of, but nothing is ever good enough for you. Nothing—not even throwing myself in the damn River Seine!”

Valjean staggered backwards; Javert had not touched him, but the blow landed all the same.

Now Javert was staring again. His eyes were dry, and they were cold as ice. “I don’t know why I bothered,” the Inspector spat. “You are a terrible husband.”

And with that spiteful declaration, Javert turned tail and stormed from the room, throwing the door shut with a bang behind him.

For a long while, Valjean stood fixed in the center of the floor.

Straight ahead, the door taunted him; his ears still rang with the sound of its slam. Torn between the desire to follow and the knowledge that it would likely make matters worse, Valjean gazed, transfixed, at the knob. Shame turned his stomach; a better man would have already left in pursuit, an explanation on his lips and contrition in his heart. A better man would not stand there adrift, unable to move or to think. But then, a better man would never have hurt Javert to begin with.

It was not lost on him the bitter irony of what he had done. To have wished, even briefly, to know of life with a wedded partner and to then have been so guarded and unwelcoming when he was presented with one; Javert was right, he was a terrible husband. Valjean shuddered, his eyes prickling with heat. Had he managed to uphold even one of his ill-made vows?

_With this hand, I will lift your sorrows._

Mistrusting and uncharitable, Valjean had done nothing of the kind. In fact, he was quite certain he had only increased Javert’s sorrows tenfold.

_Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine._

Valjean thought of the park bench, and of Javert carefully wrapping his coat around the two of them. The Inspector did his duty as a husband with as much attention as he paid to administering justice, attempting in his own way to see Valjean provided for. Meanwhile, Valjean was unable to name a single kindness he had paid the man since his unexpected emergence from the grave.

_With this candle, I will light your way in darkness._

When darkness swallowed Javert, where was Valjean? Not at the river, but kneeling near his bedside in fevered prayer, too mired in his own troubles to see past them. And now they were each pulled back into the other’s orbit, Valjean did nothing to ease the pain Javert still so obviously felt. Indeed, by wringing out confessions of what was past, he had likely only succeeded in dredging up those things the Inspector would rather forget.

_With this ring, I ask you to be mine._

He had asked—but he had never intended to ask, a fact which he impressed upon Javert far too thoroughly. It was this promise in particular which awoke in Valjean a strange, sweeping emotion like a tide; it pulled and niggled at him, but what it signified, he could not say. Nevertheless, one thing was clear—Javert deserved better than what Valjean could offer. It was as true of him as it was of Cosette, and as with Cosette, the only apology he could offer was to go before he caused more harm.

Gradually, it occurred to Valjean that he was naïve to think leaving was even an option. He laughed with silent, quaking laughter; there was every chance Javert had bolted the door behind him out of sheer odium.

It was that thought-turned-query which at last inspired in Valjean the will to move. He walked toward the door with leaden steps, at once willing it to be open and also quietly, selfishly wishing that for once his choice would be made for him.

Tentatively, Valjean put his hand on the knob. With bated breath, he turned his wrist a quarter-turn until the knob twisted under his fingers. The door creaked open to reveal the dreary hall beyond, where peeling paint and cobwebbed corners decorated the corridor with a mantle of loneliness. It was empty; Javert had gone.

Valjean exhaled, guilt welling up anew in his chest. How could he have been so thoughtless? If he had only told Javert what he intended from the beginning, or if Javert would have waited as he said—then he would never have needed know what words were exchanged with Marius and he could not have ascribed his own meaning to them. Yet in spite of everything, Javert had not locked him in; Valjean was no prisoner there. And it was perhaps that knowledge, that he could leave if he so chose, which made Valjean feel the worst of all.

“Javert?” he called out. There was a possibility the man was still in the house.

When no answer came from down the hall, Valjean ventured timidly from the room; he was reminded that he had not previously been left alone to explore the Inspector’s accommodations for himself, and he was unable to shake the feeling that he was a trespasser there as his fingers traced along the wall. Though Valjean listened carefully, the only sound was the occasional creak of the building settling.

“Javert?” he said again as he came to the top of the stairs, but it was a half-hearted attempt. He had known from the moment the Inspector slammed the door that he would not wait around for Valjean to come to his senses.

Descending the steps, Valjean gave the front room a cursory glance as he made his way to the exit. The furniture was impersonal, and the walls were bare. Javert had been dead for months; in all that time, had he accumulated no belongings with which to put his mark on his new home? Valjean kept an austere house himself, but Cosette was quick to put fresh flowers on the table, and it was always welcome to see that hint of spring’s softness. Then again, Javert did not have a daughter. He did not have anyone to bring him gifts for no reason other than that they wanted to.

Valjean stepped onto the street and looked around. The longer he spent in the Land of the Dead, the less frightening he found it; it was perpetually darker than the world ‘upstairs’, and it at times could be rather gloomy, but the lights in the windows were warm and inviting, and people were altogether more friendly to him than they were in the living world.

He realized as he turned his head that he did not know his way—Javert had offered to show him the city, but Valjean never allowed him the occasion. He remembered how to get to the café, but the rest of the many neighborhoods stretched on perhaps for miles. In the end, he decided it did not matter; the point was to leave and trouble Javert no longer with his inadequacy. Where he himself ended up was inconsequential.

Beginning to walk without aim or direction, Valjean turned the opposite way out the door and let his feet take him where they would. Javert was better off without him; if not for Valjean, the Inspector might even still be alive.

It was harder to leave than he anticipated. Valjean found his feet dragged as he went, and he had to remind himself it was for Javert’s sake that they should be separated. It was natural that it hurt to leave Cosette; he thought of the girl as his own, though he knew he should not. Yet why did he feel the same tight ache in his chest walking away from Javert’s apartment?

The farther he went, the more the niggling emotion of before clawed at him, scattering his thoughts and disrupting the clarity which usually followed his making a difficult decision. Valjean considered this, puzzled. His own state of disaffection he understood; he had committed a blunder, and in so doing, caused harm he did not intend. Moreover, he was finding as he had once so long ago in Montreuil-sur-Mer that Javert’s company could at times be pleasant; he regretted not coming to know him better.

Yet it was something about Javert himself which troubled Valjean. Valjean had put the ring on his finger, that much was true—but Javert was under no obligation to say yes. What had ever possessed him to agree to be married?

Valjean shoved his hands into his pockets, brow furrowing as he walked. At first he assumed it to be that the Inspector found matrimony as effective a cage as iron bars; certainly, he would not be the first man to come to that conclusion. Yet Javert had disabused him of such notions, so what then was his motivation?

_I was happy married to you. For a moment._

Why should Javert be happy they were married? If he were irritated by Valjean’s presence, Valjean understood that. If he were frustrated that Valjean had by mistake roped them both into this arrangement, well, that was fair. But happiness was an altogether different emotion, and Javert was not one to say what he did not mean. If he said he had been happy, it must have been so.

Without consciously realizing it, Valjean came to a halt in the center of the street. A hundred little moments rose in his mind, coalescing into a larger picture he could not quite grasp. Javert, making arrangements with Myriel and Fantine. Javert, giving him time alone to reacquaint with old friends. Javert, offering Valjean his arm again and again. Javert, answering his seemingly endless stream of questions.

In his chest, Valjean’s breath came faster as his thoughts continued to swirl. Javert, letting him go free after the sewers, after Marius. Javert, gazing up at the stars. Javert, adjusting Valjean’s cravat.

The Inspector had exceeded duty. He had exceeded kindness.

A soft gasp escaped him as the profound, uncertain revelation presented itself in its enormity. Valjean pivoted, looking back the way he had come. Where had Javert gone, anyhow?

The café was the only place he could think to search. He hurried, a nameless sense of urgency entering his stride, until at last the familiar front porch of the coffeeshop came into view.

Pushing his way through the door, Valjean’s eyes swept the room. It took him a few passes before he came to a disappointing conclusion: Javert was not present. His shoulders fell. If not the café, then he did not know where to begin looking. The Inspector could be anywhere.

Once again, Valjean surveyed the occupants of the many tables. As he had thought, Javert was nowhere to be seen. For that matter, neither did he spy Monseigneur Myriel. There was no-one to ask for help. Sighing, Valjean made his way back to the counter, where a few young men were sipping from mugs and reading the newspaper. The leftmost seemed utterly unbothered by the crossbow bolt which stuck out of his back.

“One _noisette_ , please,” Valjean murmured to the cadaver behind the register. Pulling a few coins from his pocket, he seated himself on a stool and rested his head in his hands. Perhaps if he found the skeleton boy, Gavroche, the child could lead him to some of Javert’s prefered haunts. Such was the sort of information _gamins_ were quick to gather, and happy to sell.

A cup and saucer were placed before him, and Valjean raised the creamy drink to his lips. Presently, he became aware of the youth seated at his side. The dead man wore the garb of a student, and whatever drink he held clutched between his hands had the appearance of being stronger than coffee. Frowning, Valjean tried to parse the boy’s face, but could not place it. After a moment, he returned to his cup, stirring it with his spoon listlessly.

Just as he was beginning to think he would have to go out and start making inquiries, the youth spoke.

“Looking for someone, are you?”

Valjean started, turning around in surprise. The young man sat facing him on his stool, one leg crossed over the other, and now Valjean could see the faded cockard pinned to his breast. So it was one of the insurgents, then.

“I am,” Valjean acknowledged. “Perhaps you know him.”

The youth raised one thick, black eyebrow. “What man can truly say he knows another? What man can truly say he knows himself? If knowing oneself is the beginning of all wisdom, what man can be said to be wise?”

Undeterred by this strange manner, Valjean pressed on, “I am looking for -”

“- I know who you are looking for,” the youth interrupted, returning to his bottle. The glass was stamped with the imprint of a skull and crossbones, which left Valjean to wonder what, exactly, he was drinking. “And I know where you can look, for all the good it may do you.”

“Tell me, please,” said Valjean getting to his feet.

“You know the park?” the student asked, staring at the counter.

Silently, Valjean nodded.

“If you follow the path through to the end, you will come upon a bridge. Your ‘friend’ often goes there when he is in an especially black mood.”

Valjean felt a chill run through him, but the youth was not through speaking.

“We have learned to steer clear, Monsieur—that is a wolf which still has its teeth.” Then he sighed. “It is a hard thing, to die for a man who does not love you.” His shoulders hunched, and he took a draught of the bottle’s contents. “Do not be surprised if he is... unwilling to follow.”

Valjean studied the young rebel, the boy’s posture defensive and his words weary. Understanding flickered like a candle flame in Valjean’s belly.

“Sometimes,” he said carefully, “it is winter, and a man sees only the thorns. But then spring comes, and with it, roses.” He laid a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “I think you should not give up hope of spring. I pray Javert has not.”

He made to leave, already retracing in his head the way to the park, but the same voice stopped him as he walked toward the door.

“I’m called Grantaire,” said the student, sweeping his arms in a mock-bow. “Since you asked,” he added with a sarcastic curve to his mouth.

Valjean paused. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

And with that earnest word of gratitude, Valjean turned about and all but ran from the café. Haste was truly with him now, his own words echoing in his head alongside those of the student. That Javert should seek out a bridge when he was disquieted was morbid enough, but that Valjean should be the one to drive him to do it... He shook his head and ran faster.

The park was not so terrible as he remembered. Its emptiness was more sad than it was unnerving, and the trees were not malevolent so much as they were dormant, like a forest in winter’s thrall. His clip soon brought him to the bench where the two of them had sat together, and Valjean cinched his coat around him tighter.

He did not falter as the path continued, leading into a part of the park he had not seen before. How much longer did it stretch? Valjean knew nothing, save that he had to reach the end. There was a stitch in his side, but he disregarded it and pushed forward. That mild discomfort was insignificant to the cacophony in his head.

Then Valjean began to notice shapes in the trees. They accumulated, growing in number until it seemed the branches bore foliage even in death, and he discovered that they were crows; dozens or hundreds of crows, all of them watching him silently with beady, glittering eyes. The carrion eaters turned their many heads as he passed by, and he felt the judgement in their regard.

Ahead, the path twisted. He rounded the bend and skidded to a halt as he found himself at the foot of a rough stone bridge. It was not the stately limestone of the Pont Notre-Dame crossing the Seine, but a rustic construction which spanned what was little more than a shallow gully.

The bridge was occupied. Valjean’s eyes found the familiar figure leaning against the parapet, and the relief colored his voice as he said aloud, “Javert.”

At the sound of his name, the Inspector did an about-face, his expression sliding through several emotions too quickly to name before landing upon detached disinterest.

Crossing his arms, Javert said, “What are you still doing here?”

Valjean blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I thought you would have left by now,” Javert went on. “That is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” He turned back to the parapet, skeletal fingers curling around the stone. “To be reunited with your daughter, to live out your days in peace and plenty, to never have to see me again?” His fingers tightened their hold. “I thought you would have gone back to Myriel, to plead for another spell. He wants your happiness, he would grant you one.”

“Javert, I -” Valjean paused, considering his words. “- I came to say, I’m sorry.”

Where he stood overlooking the water-worn break in the earth, Javert huffed. “Well, now you’ve said it. You can go.”

“Please just hear me out.” With small, careful steps, Valjean approached the bridge. “There has been a misunderstanding. My conversation with Marius was not what it seemed.”

“Then what, pray tell, was it?” The Inspector did not look at him.

“I was going to come back. After I said my piece, I was going to go and find you, and tell you that Cosette was sleeping and should not be disturbed. Then you would bring us back here, and that would be the end of it.”

Stopping at Javert’s side, Valjean looked over the edge of the bridge. That night, there was barely a trickle of water running through the gully, and what light there was betrayed the outline of human bones in the stream bed.

Their elbows brushed. Javert edged away along the parapet. “What are you playing at, Valjean?”

“I needed to give Cosette a reason for my absence,” Valjean said quietly. “So I told Marius I was bound for Calais. Cosette and I once planned to go there together.”

Javert’s mouth was thin as he shook his head. “But why tell him so at all when you could go and be with the girl?”

Valjean gazed down at the water. “Because even had none of this ever taken place, I still would not be able to stay. I care for her, Javert, and for that reason I cannot be in her life any longer. If so much as a whisper should reach the police of my identity, it would ruin her.” He looked up at the shadowed profile of the Inspector’s face. “I thought I would be alone when she married, but then there was you.”

Javert’s eyes narrowed, turning up to the empty sky. “I have tormented you for decades. Even you could not think kindly on that.”

“But it is true you have feelings for me?”

He did not mean to say the words; they fell out of his mouth before he could think, and Valjean’s breath hitched as his senses belatedly caught up to his tongue.

The Inspector’s hands dropped to his sides. Valjean could not recall Javert ever looking so defeated as he did then. Stiffly, he replied, “That is traditionally why one chooses to be wed, is it not?”

An amazed, incredulous warmth began to blossom in Valjean’s chest.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, taking Javert’s hand in his own. “I did not consider that such a thing might be possible. So many others have thought of me only with scorn, that I never guessed...”

For so it always was, from the day he was first incarcerated to the look of shock and horror on Marius’ face that very evening. Even Madeleine’s name in its benevolent authority turned to ash in the mouths of his citizens once the news reached them of his rearrest. But Javert, who liked him least, who had long dogged his footsteps, was clutching him like an anchor, and as they met eyes, Valjean felt something in his own heart give way.

“Perhaps we could give this another try?” he suggested.

Javert’s eyebrows pinched together. “Give what another try?”

By way of answer, Valjean extended his hand. “Will you walk with me?” he asked. “There is a café here which I can attest serves an excellent hazelnut coffee.”

Looking down at the proffered arm, the Inspector seemed to gather his resolve. He held himself upright and brushed lint from his already-spotless greatcoat. Then Javert laid his hand on Valjean’s elbow; it was a forced, wooden gesture, but it was a start.

Valjean let out a breath he had not known he was holding, and together, the pair started down the lane through the park. In the treetops, the crows began to caw loudly and beat their wings, but Javert waved his hand dismissively and they took off in a black cloud.

The path passed quickly under their feet, but though their arms touched with every step, there was distance between them still. Javert did not speak; after two unfinished attempts at making conversation, Valjean gave up, lapsing into silence. He was no poet, and he had not the words to persuade Javert the glowing ember in his heart was genuine.

That was when Javert pointed with one bony finger to the top of a hill, and Valjean looked up. At the crest was a statue of a man astride a horse, and a familiar childish figure was scaling it with fistfuls of linen dressings to make his own artistic contributions to the sculpture. Valjean laughed, a smile lighting his face as he watched Gavroche tie a blindfold over the rider’s eyes. An amused huff seemed to leave Javert as well, and his hand curled a little more easily around Valjean’s elbow.

The quiet between them continued after that, though it was mellowed by a more hospitable sort of accord. By the time they arrived at the café, the Inspector’s posture had relaxed until the two walked with their fingers intertwined, and Javert held the door open for Valjean to enter through it.

It was drawing on morning, and the occupants of that establishment had all but disappeared back to their prefered grottos. In vain, Valjean searched the counter for any sign of Grantaire, but the student’s place was empty.

“Here,” said Valjean, leading Javert over to a round table for two near the piano. “Sit, and I will get drinks.”

The Inspector seated himself and folded his hands in front of him. “I suppose,” he began, “that this is as good a time as any to tell you I do not drink coffee.”

“Tea, then?” Valjean asked. Uncertainty returned, and he rubbed self-consciously at his wrist.

Javert looked up at him appraisingly. “Whatever you think best,” he replied after a moment.

Unaccountably nervous for a man who only meant to order a hot beverage, Valjean nodded to Javert before crossing over to the counter. He could feel the man’s eyes on him from behind, and a flush spread across the back of his neck.

It seemed that the corpse at the register was disinclined to sleep; it was the same barista as before who served him. When he slid two steaming mugs across the counter, the barista nodded his head at where Javert sat in the corner. “On the house,” he said, and winked.

Turning pink, Valjean returned to their table and handed Javert his cup.

“I did not expect you would take cream,” he said. “But there is sugar on the side if you like.”

Javert accepted the saucer. “Thank you,” he answered sedately. Valjean got the impression there was something more he wanted to say, but when he waited a moment and Javert still did not speak, Valjean sat down at the piano bench instead.

Upon the lid, a skeletal cat awoke from a nap and stretched. She jumped down onto the keyboard with a discordant clang, and from there onto the floor where she could rub up against Javert’s legs with a rumbling purr. Then the cat sauntered off, and Valjean laid hands on the ivory keys.

The music which swelled from the instrument gave rise to any number of unvoiced thoughts. At first, Valjean stumbled over the harmonies, his fingers unpracticed and slow, but gradually the melody returned to him. His left hand found the gentle cadence which invariably reminded him of peaceful afternoons spent indoors, while his right plucked out the higher notes falling like spring rain over his ears. It was an effusive, tender song, and he knew it by heart.

He could not say how long he played, only that when the song came to a close and he looked up, his tea had gone cold. Javert was watching him with an indescribable air.

“I did not know you played the piano,” said Javert.

“Cosette taught me,” Valjean explained. “That song was one of her favorites. She learned it from the nuns, and is much better than I.”

Javert tugged at his cufflink. “I found your skill to be quite adequate.”

“Thank you.” Valjean looked a little wistfully at the floor. “I’ve never played for anyone but her before.”

“Valjean...” Javert began, taking a sip of his tea.

“Perhaps,” Valjean interrupted, “in view of the circumstances, you could call me Jean.”

It was a bold thing to say, and Javert cleared his throat, removing his hat from his head. “Of course. Jean. I owe you an apology as well.”

He took a deep breath as Valjean gazed at him nonplussed, and continued, “I have done you wrong, yet not said a word of it. That is hardly fair.”

“Javert -”

The Inspector shook his head. “I knew from the start there was every chance a mistake had been made. Why should you have willingly put a ring on my hand?” He looked at the woven band around his fourth finger and sighed. “Yet I wanted it to be true, so I gave you no choice in the matter but to deceive me. The blame is mine as much as yours.”

Raising the mug, Javert gestured at the room around them and said, “This was... kind.” The word sounded strange on his tongue. “But you do not have to pretend for me.”

Carefully, Valjean set his drink aside and wrapped Javert’s hands in his own living ones.

“I am not pretending,” he said softly.

The Inspector’s eyes widened. Then, very slowly, he began to smile. What came as a result was something more like a grimace, but Valjean warmed at the sentiment all the same.

Javert’s gruff voice was rougher than usual as he said, “In that case, I would like very much to try again.”

His gaze held Valjean’s, and Valjean reflected that even if night crept upon his soul, there was still joy to be found in the light of the moon.

The tinkle of a bell distracted his thoughts; Valjean looked up to see the door opening, a familiar figure peering around the frame.

“Ah, Javert, there you are,” said the Bishop Myriel. “And Jean, too, how delightful. I went by your rooms, but I see you are here instead enjoying refreshments.”

“Monseigneur,” said Javert, standing respectfully. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah,” said Myriel, and it seemed to Valjean that his face clouded a moment. “I was hoping for  a word. Am I interrupting?”

Javert’s expression intimated that, yes, the Bishop was in fact interrupting, but he glanced at Valjean and replied, “Not if you make it quick.”

“Of course.” His usual benign glow returning, Myriel inclined his head to Valjean. “I’ll not keep him long.” He added, “Please, enjoy your tea.”

Then Myriel motioned back towards the kitchen, and the barista did not say a word against it as the Bishop led Javert between the tables and through the swinging door.

Left to his own devices, Valjean contemplated his mug. Javert’s was already empty where it rested on the table. Taking a thoughtful sip, Valjean found the drink to be quite as good as the _noisette_ , even if it were nearly cold.

He looked again at Javert’s abandoned place. Javert had liked the tea, he must have; the Inspector would not have had so much of it out of a paltry desire to be polite. It pleased him to have guessed the man’s tastes.

Getting to his feet, Valjean crossed again to the register. “Three of the same, if you would,” he said, “and a tray if you have it.” This time, he insisted on pressing a handful of coins into the barista’s palm, and conveniently forgot to take his change from where it was set upon the counter.

Laden with a tray of three large mugs, Valjean skirted the counter to the kitchen door. He laid his hand against the wood to push his way inside, when he overheard the sound of voices. Then Valjean paused, for in the murmured garble he picked out one word which he recognized.

He heard it again, and Valjean froze.

He was certain of it this time, that what he had just overheard was the sound of his own name.


	6. The Eighth Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have been following this story to date, note that I have added additional tags. For this chapter in particular, please be aware of content warnings for suicidal thoughts and on-screen depiction of suicide; listen, it isn't my fault that both sets of source material are Like This, okay.

He would not eavesdrop, Valjean told himself firmly. Javert and Myriel both had his trust. Yet his fist hung in midair over the wood, and Valjean could not bring himself to lower it and knock. Instead he stood unmoving as the muffled voices washed over his attentive ears.

“...does Jean have to do with this?”

That was Javert, sounding quite as caustic as ever. Were they not already acquainted, Valjean might have worried on Myriel’s behalf, for the Inspector could be rather abrasive when he wanted to cut to the point.

Myriel’s tones, softer and more subdued, reached Valjean’s ears with difficulty. He had to strain to listen, pressing closer to the seam where the door leaf met the jamb.

“It is a delicate matter,” the Bishop murmured. “Which is why I wanted to bring it to your attention first.”

Valjean leaned against the door with his shoulder, and it opened by inches into the kitchen. Cautiously, he peered through the gap.

The baker had gone home; it was only Javert and Myriel’s forms which were silhouetted against the hearth light. The Bishop was positioned behind a long trestle table laden with cutlery, but Javert stood apart, his arms folded to his chest and his face bearing a familiar expression of displeasure. Then Valjean did worry for Myriel, for Javert defensive was perhaps the most difficult to reason with.

“What is it?” Javert asked flatly.

Myriel seemed to hesitate. “There is a complication with your marriage,” he said, his serene features close to pained.

“I do not understand.”

Javert’s voice had turned cold, his words hard, and Valjean felt his heart skip a beat; what now, when they were after so long beginning to find solace with one another?

Myriel beckoned the Inspector closer, hefting a leather-bound tome onto the table. His expression dour, Javert approached and watched as the Bishop opened the book to a yellowed parchment page.

Tapping a passage with his finger, Myriel explained, “The vows are binding only until death do you part.”

Javert stiffened. “What are you saying?”

“Death has already parted you.”

Valjean’s stomach sank like a block of lead. All this, and they were not even married? In the kitchen, Javert seemed to sway, raising a hand to his head.

“It cannot be.” The Inspector’s face was ashen in the firelight. “If he finds out, he will leave,” he muttered feverishly.

“Which is why I thought to address this to you,” Myriel said solemnly. “You have a choice to make.”

“Please.” Javert turned to him beseechingly. “There must be something you can do.”

Myriel pursed his lips; it was clear that his next words were spoken with great reluctance. “There is one way. It requires the greatest sacrifice.”

“What do you mean?”

Levelly, the Bishop said, “You would have to kill him.”

Javert flinched back. “I beg your pardon?”

With the same deliberate neutrality as before, Myriel explained, “Jean would have to give up the life he had forever. He would need to repeat his vows in the Land of the Living and drink from the Wine of Ages.”

“Poison?” A sharp crease appeared between Javert’s eyebrows.

“This would stop his heart forever. Only then would he be free to give it to you.” Myriel closed the book, adding softly, “I am truly sorry, Javert.”

Javert’s face contorted, hands creeping upward to twist metacarpals around his cravat, but Valjean saw nothing more. His eyes had closed of their own accord, and he staggered backwards feeling lightheaded. The tray he still held sloshed tea over his hands; he set it down heavily on the counter, leaning against the stone slab for support.

Putting his head down, Valjean felt himself overwhelmed by mingled horror and despair, but one thought pierced the foggy veil which had enveloped him: namely, that soon Javert would re-emerge from the kitchen, and Valjean could not face him yet, not after that.

Steadying his breathing, Valjean moved slowly toward the register. It was a miracle he did not stumble; dizzied as he was, it was hard enough to put one foot in front of the other. When he reached the other end of the counter, the barista looked up quizzically.

“I’ve just remembered something I needed to do,” said Valjean, the faintness of his voice a strange contrast against his pedestrian statement. “When Javert returns, please tell him I have gone back to the apartment, and will meet him there.”

Leaving the café then, Valjean shrank into the folds of his topcoat. In his chest, his heart beat like the wings of a frightened bird. He had suffered too many shocks; first, the knowledge that his vows to Javert were not in fact binding, which left him with the unexpected, bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth; and second, there was the matter of what Javert would most surely ask him to do when next they met. What was he to say? His choices were to poison himself or to leave Javert. It was no choice at all.

Valjean was never one to put stock in the sanctity of his own life. Ever since the goodness of Monseigneur Myriel touched his spirit, Valjean had lived for the betterment of others; such was his purpose, and he would have gladly died for another’s sake if it were ever asked of him. Had he perished beneath the weight of a cart, or in shielding Cosette from the world’s wickedness, or in carrying Marius from the barricade, he could have accepted his fate readily. Yet this was a very different act, a mortal sin against God, and the thudding in his breast reminded him with every step that he did not want to die.

Would Javert be able to understand that? After all, he had cast his life away willingly. How was Valjean to explain that his every breath was precious to him, now he was faced with its extinction?

Worrying his lip, Valjean walked with his head bowed. Around him, the street was waking up as morning arrived, though there was no sun to light the sky below-ground. Shopkeepers opened their doors, and sellers of fresh and rotting fruits set up their stands of produce. A faint perfume attracted Valjean’s notice. He looked up to see a florist’s, the window stacked with bouquets of dried cut flowers. It reminded him of the Inspector’s spartan, colorless apartment, and he paused, gazing through the glass pane.

In the center was a vase filled with a dozen roses, their petals the same deathly blue as Javert’s skin, edges crinkling with desiccation. Valjean stared at these, his thoughts a maelstrom. When did the instinctual fear he felt at the Inspector’s grim visage first turn to fondness? And when had it grown from fondness to the possibility of something stronger? He did not have the answer; all Valjean knew was that to part with Javert for the living world would leave his soul in tatters. And what awaited him there? Nothing, save for the empty hole in his life left by Cosette’s absence.

Valjean knew well that he was a mortal man; he had always been bound for the Land of the Dead, and the ache in his bones told him that the day was coming sooner than one might like to believe when he would be sent there forever. If Javert could only wait, it was perhaps mere weeks or months until they were brought together once more. And yet, suppose Javert wouldn’t—or couldn’t—wait? Suppose Valjean returned to find that Javert had moved on to whatever world lay after? The Inspector did not have the look about him of a man condemned, but if suicides were destined for Hell as the church proclaimed, then it could well be that his soul would go someplace Valjean’s could not follow.

The roses turned glassy as his vision blurred. Valjean could not abandon Javert, not this time. Why had he been brought there if not to make right what he had failed to before? And if in drinking from a poisoned chalice Valjean surrendered any hope he had of Heaven, then so be it. He would rather be damned alongside Javert than in Heaven without him. Valjean could think of no more terrible fate than to languish alone in the Land of the Living only to die and find himself alone in the afterlife as well.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Valjean dabbed at his eyes. _U.F._ read the handkerchief; false initials for the false life he could not continue to lead. He shoved the cotton cloth back where it belonged and entered the flower shop. A skeleton in an apron and a bonnet looked up as he entered.

“Ah, welcome Monsieur,” she cooed. “How may I help you? Lilies for sympathy? Or perhaps chrysanthemums, for remembrance?”

Valjean pointed at the roses in the window. “If I could have that one, please?”

The florist plucked the arrangement from its place, admiring the dried petals. “Blue roses are for love, and immortality.” She looked up at him and smiled. “It is an excellent choice. Shall I wrap it?”

“Thank you, no,” said Valjean. “But I do not imagine he owns a vase.”

When Valjean emerged from the shop a few minutes later, he carried with him a plain glass vase in which rested a dozen blue roses. He stroked the papery petals with a fingertip. His decision was made, and the calm which settled over him was absolute.

 

***

 

The dining room of Javert’s apartment was neutral ground, untainted by the shadow of their past arguments, and so Valjean waited there facing towards the door. In the center of the table stood the vase. It was a gift, and a peace offering for having run off again. He was prepared to be patient, but as time passed and the Inspector did not appear, Valjean began to grow worried. What could have been keeping him?

It was just as he was starting to think it might be wiser to return to the café that the door opened, and Javert stepped through.

“Ah,” said Valjean, rising, “I’m glad you are here—I have something -”

He stopped short. Javert had entered, had shut the door after him, but that was all; standing, bracing himself against the frame, the Inspector neither looked up nor spoke.

“Javert?”

With great apparent effort, Javert turned around. His arms hung at his sides loose and unmoored, and his expression he arranged in a portrait of carefully concealed anguish.

“I have made,” he began, “a terrible mistake.”

Before Valjean could reply, he continued, “I thought I had the right of it, but I see now I was blind, just as I have always been blind where you are concerned. You say you do not pity me, but by the time I have finished, you shall. I only ask—selfishly, I know—that you do not say you hate me, despite that it is deserved.”

Valjean shook his head, saying again, “Javert -” but the Inspector raised his hand for quiet.

“I should have known better. I should have practiced restraint. But when you asked me to marry you, I felt -” He gestured, searching for the word. “- _alive_. I could feel the earth around me, could feel your hand in mine, and it was like waking up again.”

“How could I refuse? Your hand was so warm, and I _wanted_... I wanted. So I took you by the collar and spirited you away, and if you did not come willingly, then I could at least assure myself that as your lawfully wedded husband I had done no wrong to bring you here.”

The recriminations seemed to pour out of Javert like the tide, a force of nature in its own right compelling him onward in the list of his transgressions. Valjean wondered whether he had rehearsed this speech, or if it were only now that each painful admission was putting itself into words.

“I kidnapped you,” Javert stated, his composure fracturing. “Without a second thought. It was the eve of your daughter’s wedding and I tore you from your family because I professed to love you. And were that not enough, I locked you upstairs to ensure you could not escape, though you would have been right to do so. All along I have been suspicious of your motives—I have been angry and bitter and resentful, yet still I expected you to love me in return because it was your duty. And the cruelest part of all is that perhaps you even started to. But I was wrong.”

Turning his back on the table, Javert folded his arms around him, the roughness of his voice betraying the emotion he wanted to hide.

“The dead cannot marry the living. Even in death it seems the decrees of law are to be my undoing, only now they are Divine and ineffable. I brought you here under false pretenses. Every moment since has made a mockery of any affection you feel towards me. This marriage cannot be, and never should have been. Go back to your daughter—she adores you, and in time so will the idiot boy. I have nothing to offer here save my apologies, and you should not have to listen to those. Say that you despise me, it will be punishment enough.”

At last, the words dried up, and he fell into silence. Then Javert made no sound at all, but his head was bowed and his posture slumped in his despair.

Valjean felt his heart break open in sympathy more than once in the course of that denunciation and now he padded across the floor, skirting the table to where the Inspector was resolutely not looking at him.

“Javert,” Valjean said softly. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder; Javert winced, but did not pull away. “I do not despise you.”

Under his fingers, Javert trembled slightly. Gently, Valjean drew him around until they stood toe to toe, Javert allowing himself to be moved about like a rag doll. He still did not meet Valjean’s eyes, but he pried the ring from his finger and pressed it into the other’s palm, saying, “This belongs to you.”

“No,” said Valjean, and then Javert did look up, his face set.

“Have you not listened to a word I said?” the Inspector demanded. “We are not -”

“I know we are not married,” Valjean interrupted. “But I also have a confession to make—I overheard your conversation with Monseigneur Myriel. Including that there is a way we can be together still.”

Then it was Javert’s turn to say, “No.” His voice was hoarse but his eyes were determined as he said, “It is unthinkable. I could never ask that of you.”

“You do not have to.” Taking Javert’s hands in his, Valjean added, “I will do it.”

“You will do what?” Javert’s tone was sharp as he asked, “Are you so desperate to throw your life away? You are already a saint, Jean, do not make a martyr of yourself as well.”

“You think too highly of me,” Valjean murmured. “I have been strong before but my heart is weak. Once Cosette is gone, there will be nothing left to tether me to that world any longer. If I could make you happy here, I would be happy, too.”

Javert studied him, searching Valjean’s face for any sign of hesitance or uncertainty, but Valjean gazed placidly back and at last, Javert acquiesced. “Very well, then.”

“In that case,” said Valjean, “I believe there are guests to invite. We are having a wedding, after all.”

 

***

 

“Settle down now, settle down,” Valjean called out.

The café was bustling with excited chatter as people pushed in close to the counter. Valjean stood on a stool above the crowd, waving his arm for quiet, while behind him, Javert took shelter in his greatcoat, looking decidedly less thrilled by the throng gathering around them.

In the front was Fantine, who was smiling and also crying into a lace handkerchief. Myriel stood beside her, resting a hand on the woman’s shoulder, and behind them both were three full tables occupied by the insurgents of the rebellion. Their leader, whom Valjean knew at once for his bright, fiery demeanor, declared that thanks to Valjean’s service that long night in June, they were rendered family in purpose if not in lineage, and so the rebels would gladly join their wedding party. Enjolras also took that opportunity to shake hands with Javert, in what was equally as solemn as it was uncomfortable a moment for both of them.

As gradually the room came to attention, Valjean said, “It is about time we did this properly.”

The statement was met with laughter from around the room. At the back, the original Fauchelevent himself applauded; he had been passing through the neighborhood when the good news was announced, and he and Valjean shared a joyful reunion.

“Thank you all for your support.” Valjean swallowed, suddenly very aware of the number of people watching him. He was especially conscious of Myriel’s gaze, and he could not look the man in the eye as he added, “Gather what you can carry—we are taking this upstairs.”

Around the room, an excited murmur met Valjean’s words. Appearing from behind a table, Gavroche clutched a collection of pebbles to his chest and giggled gleefully. Javert held out his hand for Valjean, who stepped off the stool and alighted on the floor beside him.

When he stood again on solid ground, Valjean glanced once at Myriel and then away. There was no forgetting the conversation in the kitchen; the Bishop’s expression had not been one of approval as he described how Javert could yet marry him. Valjean hoped that Myriel understood, but it made a small part of him second-guess his decision if he did not have the support of his friend and mentor.

Then Javert’s arm was around his waist, and Valjean smiled shyly, his moment of distress already fading.

It was time to go.

 

***

 

Dawn was breaking when the wedding party arrived in the Land of the Living, and the grey light which spread across the eastern horizon heralded the approach of the hour which would summon the Parisians back out to their streets. Gavroche grinned broadly and threw a few celebratory pebbles to shatter the nearest gas lamps. Holding Valjean’s hand more tightly than before, Javert stared up at the great edifice before them, the front facade of the Sainte-Étienne-du-Mont.

The cathedral was deserted at that early hour, though the front doors stood unbolted in welcome of any who might come seeking asylum in the night. Myriel stepped forth, pushing, and the doors swung open on noiseless hinges. A hush fell over the assembly; Myriel ushered people inside, and Valjean and Javert came last of all up the steps.

Inside, the church was cool and dark. A few scattered lights cast a flickering glow which did more to emphasize the shadows than they did to illuminate the expanse of space. The gathering of the dead took their place in the pews, all of them facing the altar. Upon it had been set a pair of candles, a chalice, and a bottle of a liquid the color of blood. Valjean did not think it was wine.

A hand on his elbow caused Valjean to turn. It was Myriel, now having shut the doors to the narthex. He beckoned him closer, and so Valjean gave Javert a nod and motioned for him to go ahead. The Inspector and Bishop exchanged glances; then Javert bowed and made his way into the nave and the start of the aisle, leaving Valjean to speak alone with Myriel.

Only once Javert was out of earshot did Myriel looked Valjean over in concern. “Is something the matter, my friend?” he inquired.

Startled, Valjean said at first, “No,” but then he remembered again the Bishop’s apparent doubts. Perhaps Myriel did not wish him to marry Javert. Perhaps the holy man believed God would frown on the surrender of Valjean’s earthly life. “Only... I do not want to disappoint you.”

The Bishop’s kind eyes widened. “Jean, how could you disappoint me?”

Valjean cast his eyes to the ground. “Am I making the right choice?”

Understanding bloomed on Myriel’s face. Quietly, he said, “Tell me, Jean—is this a choice you make of your own free will?”

Valjean gazed at him in confusion. “Yes,” he replied.

“And does this choice make you happy?” Myriel looked at him knowingly. “You have made many choices in life to ensure the happiness of others, but I ask now about you.”

Valjean thought carefully. The question was harder to answer when he thought only of himself and not of Javert, but for the Bishop’s sake, he tried. When he answered at last, it was without any doubt in his heart.

“It does.”

Myriel broke into a smile. “Then I am very happy for you, and not the least bit disappointed. And if it is my blessing you want, then know that you have it.”

Feeling as though a tremendous, inexplicable weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Valjean’s smile was equal parts joy and relief. Myriel offered his arms, folding Valjean into an embrace, and it was a struggle to keep his composure as Valjean’s eyes filled with tears. Then from the choir loft came the sound of the organ.

Valjean turned. Through the doors into the nave, he could see Javert standing in the aisle. His hand was outstretched, and he was waiting.

 

***

 

At the altar, Valjean and Javert stood side by side. Myriel stood behind the table, his leather-bound book held open in his hands to the page of the ritual.

“Dearly beloved—and departed,” the Bishop addressed the pews, “we are gathered here today to join these two men in marriage.”

Titters went up from a few of the youth in the crowd. Javert growled in vexation, and Valjean touched his arm in gentle admonishment.

Myriel gestured to Valjean. “Living first.”

Valjean took a deep breath. He was not nervous; indeed, he felt very grounded, his last reservations slipping away in the certainty of what he meant to do. Valjean turned to Javert, raising his right arm.

“With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.”

He reached for the chalice, and into it poured a measure of the red liquid from the decanter. In the silent cathedral, Valjean could hear it hiss and fizz faintly. Raising the chalice in both hands, he held it out for Javert to drink.

“Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.”

Without once breaking the hold of his eyes, Javert took the chalice and drained it, returning the goblet to the altar table empty.

Nodding to Javert, Myriel said, “Now you.”

“With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.” Javert’s deep voice rumbled in the hall as he held up his skeletal palm. Then he bent, refilling the chalice from the crystal bottle.

Extending the vessel, Javert said, “Your cup will never empty, for I will be...” The Inspector faltered, his eyebrows furrowing. “For I will be...”

Valjean nodded encouragingly, curling his hand around Javert’s.

Again, Javert tried, “Your cup will never empty for I will be...”

“...For I will be your wine,” finished Valjean, prising the chalice from the Inspector’s fingertips. The cool metal touched his mouth. He was about to drink when the rim was covered by an icy hand and pushed away.

“I cannot,” said Javert. “I cannot let you do this.”

“But Javert -” Valjean protested.

“No,” Javert said vehemently. “It is not right. I have taken too much from you already. I will not take this.”

Valjean gazed affectionately at him. “You cannot take something which is freely given,” he replied. “And anyway, it is not your choice to make. It is mine.”

So saying, he pulled Javert’s hand free of the cup and brought it back to his lips. Javert reached out to stop him, but not quickly enough; Valjean did not taste the poison as it flowed over his tongue, but it burned as it went down his throat and into his stomach. When he set the chalice back on the table, it was as empty as before.

Adjacent on the platform, Javert watched tight-lipped as Valjean straightened, but for his part Valjean felt no different except for the heat in his belly and a tingling awareness of his own body: fragile, and mortal, and dying. He wondered distantly how long it would take, and whether it would hurt.

Myriel was looking at him expectantly; gathering himself, Valjean struck a match and lit his white taper. The wick ignited at once, steady and strong.

“With this candle,” said Valjean, “I will light your way in darkness.”

Raising his own taper, Javert touched the two ends together until a spark caught and two silver candlesticks shone on the cathedral altar.

Valjean drew the grass band from the pocket in which he had stowed it earlier, feeling himself beginning to shake slightly. “With this ring, I ask you to be mine.”

Though he was still pinched with worry, Javert held out his arm, and Valjean carefully slid the ring over his fourth finger. That was when it happened—there was a pain like a vice in his chest as the poison seized his heart, and Valjean gasped.

“Jean?”

Dimly, he heard Javert’s voice, felt arms supporting him as he doubled over, but Valjean was most aware of the pounding in his head and the absence of any answering rhythm in his chest.

He could not breathe—

All the lights were blurry—

The room was spinning—

He felt his knees strike the floor, moments before Valjean’s vision went black.

 

***

 

When Valjean opened his eyes, he was laying on the floor. His head was in Javert’s lap, and Javert was holding his hand tightly. The next thing which Valjean discovered was that he was not breathing. Or, if he was, then it was only out of habit, and not necessity. He blinked, and Javert’s stony features melted in relief.

“Jean,” he murmured.

Valjean raised his head, looking around the church. The pews were empty. “Where did everyone go?” he asked, still gathering his wits about him.

Javert’s stifled laugh sounded suspiciously like he was holding back tears. “Fantine shooed them all into the front hall—she thought we would want to be alone when you woke.”

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Valjean steadied his breathing, which, he reminded himself, was itself entirely unnecessary. Being dead was less frightening and more strange than he had expected; all the aches and pains of his many years left him, and there was no twinge in his bad leg as he rolled onto his knees.

“You have not finished saying your vows,” Valjean chided with mock severity, and Javert shook his head.

“Even dead you are infuriating,” the other man sighed. “I should not be surprised—Jean Valjean, not dead five minutes, already looking for a way to give me an aneurysm. That should be impossible, but give it time, I am sure you will find a way.”

Valjean only raised an eyebrow, and Javert sighed again, but softly.

“I ask you to be mine,” said Javert. “Of course I do. I love you, Jean, and I could not want anything else.”

“And I love you,” Valjean responded. “My answer is yes.”

Javert’s hand came up to cup Valjean’s chin, guiding him closer, and Valjean’s only thought before their lips met was that Javert no longer felt the least bit cold to the touch.

He was giddy. Their noses brushed as Javert tipped his head to the side, and then they were kissing properly, Valjean’s fingers tangled in the Inspector’s hair, Javert’s mouth soft against his. It lasted a long moment, until they were interrupted by a wolf whistle from the other side of the church.

Jumping in surprise, Valjean looked around to see the youth Grantaire standing with a few of his friends clapping by the doors, though the young man quickly ducked and turned away at the sight of Javert’s murderous expression.

Despite his embarrassment, Valjean could not help but chuckle. “Come, Javert,” he said, getting to his feet and offering his hand. “I believe it is customary for newlyweds to greet their guests.”

With much apparent resignation, Javert took hold of the proffered hand and hauled himself upright. The way he held onto Valjean’s arm even after he was standing suggested that the Inspector was not as exasperated as he let on.

In the narthex, Fantine was the first to run to meet them. Tearfully, she kissed Valjean on both cheeks, and then Javert, an act which seemed to alarm the Inspector as much as anything had that early morning. Then came Myriel, in whose presence Valjean still felt suffused with warmth, and Fauchelevent, who clapped Valjean firmly on the back before beginning to weep quite effusively.

The young rebels came after, their words of well-wishing and congratulations a swelling chorus of playful camaraderie. The jests and roughhousing put smiles on the faces of all, though none were quite so loved as Gavroche, who firmly insisted upon clambering up to ride on Valjean’s shoulders where he sat tweaking the Inspector’s whiskers.

The atmosphere was becoming so festive that Valjean did not even notice the door to the street glide open. It was only when there was heard over the hubbub a cry of, “Oh!” that Valjean experienced a sudden, terrible premonition. Slowly, he raised his head.

Just inside the gathering space was Marius, his expression fraught with terror, but that was hardly a matter worthy of thought in the face of the Baron’s companion. If Valjean’s heart were not already stopped, it surely would have ceased to beat in that moment, for beside Marius in the doorway stood Cosette, her eyes wide and her hands clapped over her mouth in shock.


	7. The 16th of February, 1833

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy I can end 2018 with this fic complete! I never intended it to become as long and involved as it did, which is about par for the course where my writing is concerned so that's not much of a surprise.
> 
> Anyway, many thanks to all who have left comments and kudos, I love reading your feedback. <3 A very special thanks to my betas, without whom this story would not be what it is. Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoy the final installment of the Corpse Bride AU!

Though the chatter of the room continued all around him, Valjean stood rooted to the spot, staring at Cosette. The girl stared back, equally unable to move or to speak. She was clothed in her wedding dress, yards of delicate lace spilling onto the floor around her in a sea of white. What little Valjean perceived of Marius suggested that he was attired similarly in his finest suit, and that together they made a darling bride and groom standing stupefied in the entryway. 

Searching for something, anything, to say, Valjean opened his mouth but nothing came out. Frantically, he tried to imagine what might justify this to his daughter, or whether such a thing were even possible. Perhaps she would hate him now, as he always feared she would.

Valjean’s disjointed thoughts were interrupted as the side door to the narthex swung inward. Pouring into the space from the passage beyond came a crowd of nobles dressed in their Sunday best, led at the forefront by none other than M. Gillenormand himself. The room filled with the noise of their jovial conversation and laughter, until Gillenormand, catching sight of the hall’s occupants, stopped short. Then there were a few confused moments in which the living perceived the dead, and the dead in turn noticed the arrival of the living. 

Gradually, the room went quiet.

“What,” began Gillenormand, “is this.”

It was not phrased as a question. Instead, Gillenormand’s eyes swept the reception space, taking in the sight of pale, bluish faces gazing back at him in their varying states of decay, until he landed on Marius where the boy was huddled near the front door. Had anyone else in that room been privy to Marius’ argument with his grandfather in the earlier parts of the morning, they would have understood the comprehension spreading slowly over Gillenormand’s face, and the terror which followed immediately after. 

“Hello,” a polite voice said into the silence. Valjean looked over and saw one of the young men—Combeferre, if he remembered correctly—addressing the newcomers. “May we help you?”

Two matronly ladies dressed in their finest skirts and pearls took one look at the student’s tattered, bloodstained clothes and dropped to the floor in a dead faint. Both halves of the crowd looked down at the ladies’ slumped forms, and then up at one another. The room broke into a complete uproar. 

Chaos reigned absolute. Refined gentlemen in their tailcoats fled screaming like children, and bourgeois women either clutched their handbags to their chests or used them to beat back the deceased and somewhat perplexed wedding guests. Gavroche leapt wholeheartedly into the madness, tugging on tails and skirts and yelling for no other reason than because he could.

Through the commotion, Valjean noticed movement near the door. It was Cosette, her features pale but determined, and she was edging around the narthex towards him. Behind her came her fiancé, towed along by means of a hand closed around his arm. Then a ceramic vase stolen from some alcove flew through the air, and Javert pulled Valjean out of the way. It missed him narrowly, striking the stone floor instead where it shattered into pieces. 

Touching Javert’s shoulder gratefully, Valjean was voicing his thanks when he was again diverted by the scene on the other side of the narthex.

“Marius.”

Valjean beheld a rather amusing sight; Marius’ courage had extended so far as to push Cosette behind him, but his head was curled into his shoulder, and he peeked out through slitted eyes at the corpse which had accosted him.

“I say, Marius, is that you?” 

When Marius did not answer except with a strangled whimper, the corpse in question put his hands on his hips indignantly. 

“It is I, your old friend Courfeyrac. I see you are as much an idiot now as ever—are you even listening to a word I say?”

With an agonizing slowness, Marius raised his head. “Courfeyrac?” he repeated weakly.

“I knew we would get there eventually!” Courfeyrac clapped the startled bridegroom on the back and drew him into a one-armed embrace. “Not the cleverest of fellows you’ve chosen,” he added in an exaggerated whisper to Cosette. “But a good one all the same.”

“But...” said Marius, gazing in bewilderment at the chaos still unfolding. “How is it you are here?”

“We are all here!” Courfeyrac replied proudly. “We came to see your lady’s father marry the police Inspector! Not as surprising a turn of events as first I thought, either.”

The two friends continued to speak, Courfeyrac asking, “And what brings you out to the church this fine morning?” to which Marius responded, “Er, well, I am to be getting married myself,” but Valjean’s attention was entirely for Cosette, who at Courfeyrac’s explanation had swiveled her head to look at where Valjean stood with Javert, a glint of steel in her eyes. Valjean thought he understood then what Javert had meant by an earlier sentiment; he could no longer feel the temperature of the air, nor the texture of his suit against his skin, but he could still feel the clench of his stomach at the displeasure on his daughter's face. 

Not content to wait upon Marius to follow, Cosette cut across the floor, her eyes flashing like the beads of her dress. Valjean winced; woefully unprepared for this meeting, he had put no thought at all into what to say to her. He was late in every sense of the word.

Bowing his head, Valjean tried to fit an explanation to his tongue as Cosette strode up to him. He had had his fill of lies, he could only tell her what had happened, and -

Cosette passed him without slowing once. Pivoting, Valjean’s brow furrowed in confusion, but Cosette was making a beeline straight for Javert. The Inspector was unconscious of the impending collision, too absorbed in watching with a faint frown as the Amis chased the bourgeois interlopers from the premises, and Valjean only had time to produce half an inarticulate warning before Cosette reached her destination.

With all the strength in her tiny body, Cosette shoved Javert away. Never mind that the Inspector towered above her in height, never mind that he was a reanimated corpse, Cosette did not so much as flinch as she planted herself firmly between Javert and her father. The Inspector, caught off guard, stumbled sideways. When he turned, he drew a sharp breath, but there was no getting a word in edgewise as Cosette immediately launched into a furious diatribe.

“What have you done?” she demanded. “How dare you harass my Papa? He is a good man, better than you know, and I will not let you take him away, I just won’t! You set him free from whatever spell he’s under right now, or you’ll have me to answer to, Monsieur!”

Taken aback by this, Javert blinked vigorously for several seconds before he began, “Mademoiselle...”

“No,” said Cosette. “No more excuses. Let him go. Papa belongs with Marius and I, not with whatever  _ you _ are.”

Javert narrowed his eyes, looking at her coldly for a long moment. Then he released a heavy sigh. “I tried to tell him that,” he said quietly. “But he would not listen to me.” Raising his head, the Inspector regarded Valjean with exasperation. “He never listens to me.”

Outstretching his hand, Valjean said, “Cosette.”

The girl looked back at him, and Valjean realized with a pang that despite the ferocity of her posture, there were tears in his daughter’s eyes. 

“Papa,” she replied, all but falling forward into his arms. Touching a hand to his face wonderingly, Cosette added, “You are as cold as ice.”

Pulling her closer until he could wrap his arms around her waist, Valjean leaned his forehead against his daughter’s. “I never meant to hurt you, my dear. Please believe that.” The girl’s hair was soft under his fingers as he stroked the back of her head. “But I cannot stay. It is too late for that.”

“Why, Papa?” Cosette implored him, her cheeks streaked with wetness. “Why are you so determined to leave us?”

Valjean hesitated, his throat tight. It was not the time to explain everything, not when she was already so heartbroken. “At first, I was afraid,” he admitted. “You know I have never spoken of my past—I could not allow its tragedies to shadow your life. I thought I would have to go away to keep you safe. But then something happened, something I did not expect.” He glanced up at where Javert stood opposite, subdued. “I fell in love.”

Cosette’s face changed at that; though it was still written with sorrow, her eyes softened. “With him?” she asked, turning to glance back at the Inspector. 

Valjean’s mouth lifted in the echo of a smile as he gazed at Javert’s uncertain features. “Yes,” he replied.

“And you?” continued Cosette, sizing Javert up. “Do you love him also?”

“Despite my best efforts to the contrary,” Javert muttered. “I do. God help me, but I do.”

“Well,” Cosette said eventually. “That’s alright then.”

“Cosette?” 

In unison, the trio turned. By then, Gillenormand and his wealthy friends had fled, chased hence by students who had seen too much of their ilk in life and were certainly not about to tolerate more bourgeois pretentiousness in death. Near the doors, Marius was surrounded in joyful companionship with each of his departed friends, shaking hands and sharing in tears and laughter. Yet it was not Marius who had spoken; standing alone in the debris of the altercation was a woman all dressed in white, her hair cropped short and her face glowing with tentative hope.

Cosette cocked her head curiously. “Madame?” she asked.

Fantine held out her hands. “It is you,” she breathed. “My little Euphrasie.”

“Mama?” In amazement, Cosette took a careful step forward. 

“Oh, Cosette.” And then Fantine was pulling her daughter to her, holding her close, and Cosette was smiling through her tears, and even Javert could not continue to look chastened in the presence of their reunion.

When all the introductions had been made and the story was shared of how Marius and Cosette came to be at the church so very early in the morning, the conversation turned to Cosette’s wedding gown, and the ceremony which was meant to be performed for them that very day.

“But,” said Marius despondently, “Grandfather has run off. I do not know what to do now.”

“Why, you are to be married, of course!” exclaimed Courfeyrac, who had not once left Marius’ side.

“But how?” Marius asked. “The priest is likely hiding in the chapel thinking you lot are demons from the depths of hell.”

“He may be right about that,” laughed a balding man whom Valjean had heard was called Bossuet. “But you have no need of a priest, for we have a Bishop.”

So it was that Bishop Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was brought forward. He appeared most entertained by the goings-on, and indeed even Marius, who remained slightly leery of the company of corpses surrounding him, could find no cause to fear this gentle old soul. 

Myriel was more than happy to preside over the ceremony for the young lovers, which is how Valjean found himself seated once more in the front pew of the cathedral, only this time he was not alone. Behind him were the rebels, eager to congratulate their good friend, but Valjean’s thoughts were with the man seated beside him. Javert had removed his hat respectfully, resting it on the seat, and he held Valjean’s hand in his own. Valjean set his head on Javert’s shoulder, and he reflected that never in his life had he imagined such a scenario, or the peace which it would bring to him.

At the altar, Cosette stood radiant with her fiancé. The bottle of poison was placed below the altar table, and a more wholesome drink was fetched along with fresh candles from the storeroom. Then Myriel began to speak the opening verses, until he was interrupted by the creak of the door to the narthex.

As one, all turned to look.

Framed in the doorway was the priest, trembling and clutching a crucifix, but his voice rang through the hall as he cried out, “Begone! Back to the void—return to the abyss from whence you came! Back -”

He was interrupted by Grantaire, who turned over his shoulder to say loudly, “Keep it down, we’re in a church.” Then he punched Bossuet in the shoulder and laughed. 

Pressing the crucifix to his heart, the priest turned approximately three shades paler and exited the way he had come, wearing an expression which said that he regretted his decision to not drop out of seminary.

“With this hand,” Cosette began, “I will lift your sorrows.”

The attention returning to the altar, Valjean dabbed at his nose with his handkerchief as the children spoke their vows. A few quiet tears slid down his cheek, but they were not the unhappy tears they might have been had the wedding proceeded according to plan. Rather, Valjean found that in the wake of recent events he no longer had need to fear his daughter’s marriage. Though her light was passing out of his life, there was in that sunset the rising glow of the moon; Javert’s affection was not the same, nor could it completely erase his feeling of loss, but the hand on his arm was a steadying reminder that he did not have to face the darkness on his own.

Atop the platform the young couple drank the wine and lit the candles, and Marius did not stumble over his lines even once. Then each placed a ring upon the other’s finger. A cheer went up from the Baron’s friends as he and Cosette kissed, and Javert commented dryly that at least his new step-daughter was sensible.

Another creak sounded from the doors at the rear of the church. Valjean glanced backwards—had the priest perhaps returned to further berate them? 

The sight which met his eyes was not the one he expected. Rather than a tall, thin figure in the robes of the priesthood, entering through the double doors was a stooped nobleman wearing a white powdered wig.

“Isn’t this touching?” said the newcomer with an aristocratic sneer. Advancing steadily up the aisle, he went on, “The convict’s daughter marries the insurgent Baron. Now they are joined in holy matrimony, and everyone can live happily ever after.”

Slowly, Valjean rose from his seat. Something was very wrong here. 

“Of course,” the nobleman continued, his voice changing gradually in register, “there is still the matter of the girl’s dowry. I know you’ve hidden it somewhere, and very well, it seems. Would’ve been better for you if I’d found it last night, but you always were too clever of a man, Valjean. Now I’m through looking, and I’m not asking, either.” 

With a disingenuous plop, the wig slid off the nobleman’s head, and Valjean gasped as he took in a grizzled brown mop of hair and dark, shifty eyes which were distressingly familiar. Then Thénardier plucked a revolver from the inside of his overcoat and leveled it at where Cosette stood on the platform.

“That money is my right,” Thénardier snarled.

For a moment, the entire room sat frozen in shocked silence. Valjean stared between the barrel of the gun and his daughter. There was no telling what Thénardier would do with the money if he gave into the man’s demands, but he could not allow Cosette to be harmed. He had already given up his life, there was nothing left to fear losing in her defense. Valjean was just beginning to slide into the aisle when he was stopped by Javert’s hand on his arm.

“Wait,” said the Inspector. “The dead are not permitted to do harm to the living. We cannot interfere yet.”

Valjean began to protest when he was interrupted, for from the direction of the platform came the sound of Marius’ voice. 

“Thénardier.” The young man glowered down the platform steps to where the villain stood at the bottom. “You should not have come here.”

“But your grandfather invited me, Monsieur le Baron,” said the conman in a high, wheedling voice. “And besides,” he added with a nasty grin, “I know stories about your wife’s parentage that would curl your greasy hair.”

“I greatly doubt you know anything I have not heard already,” Marius said calmly. “And I will not tell you again—leave this place.” He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a silver pistol.

Even as Valjean stood watching these events unfold with steadily mounting horror, Javert shifted beside him. With an expression of deep disgust, the Inspector muttered under his breath, “Why did I ever lend that fool firearms?”

In the aisle, Thénardier’s grin had not slackened. “You pay me what I’m due and I’ll go.”

“I won’t pay you a sou,” said Marius, cocking the pistol. “Stand out of the way, my love,” he added, as Cosette laid a cautionary hand on his arm. Cosette bit her lip, but she nodded hesitantly and backed away alongside the altar table. 

“On your head be it.”

There was a tremendous crack and a flash of sparks as Thénardier fired a warning shot above Marius’ head; Marius jumped violently at the sound, and Valjean looked desperately at Javert who held him still. Surely he was not meant to stand there and watch as his son-in-law or—God forbid—his daughter was shot?

Gripping the pistol steadily with both hands, Marius descended the altar steps.

“Five hundred francs,” he said. “I would grant you that much, on account of services you rendered my father, though you have likely forgotten.”

“Not good enough,” Thénardier insisted. “I have no need of table scraps, not when your bride’s dowry is better fit for a princess.”

Marius took aim and fired, but Thénardier sidestepped the shot easily and the bullet ricocheted off the flagstone floor. 

Without pause, Marius threw the empty pistol aside and reached back into his coat for its mate, while Thénardier merely leered and clicked the barrel of the revolver to the next loaded chamber. 

“What a poor shot,” he taunted. “It’s a wonder you survived the revolution with an aim like that. And what sort of bridegroom brings a pistol to his own wedding?”

One who expected to face the undead, Valjean thought. “Javert...” he began.

“Wait.” The Inspector’s grip tightened on Valjean’s arm as Marius paused warily on the bottom step, the second silver pistol in hand. The boy was not about to waste his last shot, but Thénardier, who had the luxury of ammunition to spare, kept his gun raised. 

Sauntering behind the first pew, Thénardier eyed Cosette where she was crouched, looking on fearfully. Then he winked at Valjean, who was at the same time both terrified and furious, yet unable to intervene. 

In that moment of his opponent’s distraction, Marius acted. Leaping from the lowest step, the boy bounded across the floor to the first pew, and Javert pushed Valjean out of the way before they could collide. Then Marius did something which was at once very brave and very foolish. He grappled for Thénardier’s gun, attempting to rip it out of the man’s hands. 

Startling, Thénardier growled and tried to force his arm around to point at Marius’s head or heart. As his hand began to lift, the boy yelped and struck forward blindly. Fortunately for Marius, his instinct had been to lash out with the same hand that held his pistol, and the butt of the gun connected with Thénardier’s temple. 

With a sharp cry of pain, Thénardier shoved Marius aside. The boy dropped to his knees and rolled below the seat of the pew for cover as Thénardier clapped a hand to his forehead where the impact left him sporting a livid mark. Spitting in rage, the old con squinted and fired two rounds with the revolver. Both shots struck harmlessly upon the back of the pew in front of him, and splinters of wood showered across the floor. 

Thénardier hurled inarticulate curses at his gun as Marius crawled back onto his knees. The young Baron jumped to his feet, and without hesitation pointed Javert’s old pistol straight at the point between Thénardier’s eyebrows. Even he could not have missed at that distance.

The con froze, his eyes widening. Deliberately, Marius cocked the gun, and before Thénardier could utter so much as a plea in his own defense, Marius pulled the trigger.

As one, the entire room flinched. There was, however, no answering bang, nor the scent of burning gunpowder. Marius blinked; it was clear he did not understand what had happened. Then, the realization: the second pistol was unloaded. 

Slowly, Thénardier began to laugh. What began as a low chuckle was soon a wheezing, spiteful guffaw as he lifted the revolver once more to point this time not at Marius but at Cosette. 

“I’ll ask this just once more,” said Thénardier. “Bring me the money, or else I do away with the little songbird.”

Marius swallowed. “I don’t know where it is—her father hid it somewhere in the house.”

“Ah well.” Thénardier shrugged, the last chamber of the revolver clicking into place. “Say farewell to your songbird.”

He pulled the trigger.

There was a thunderclap and a flash of light as the gun discharged, and cries went up from each Marius, Cosette, and Valjean, the latter of whom covered his face with his hands in despair.

It was the stunned silence which followed that prompted Valjean to peer through his fingers. Standing between Thénardier and Cosette was a tall figure shrouded beneath a long woolen coat and top hat. Thénardier gaped at the figure as recognition set in slowly, his now-useless weapon hanging limp in his hand.

“I refuse to believe it,” he spluttered. “They fished your body out of the river!”

“They did,” Javert grinned broadly. “And you will find it much harder to kill a dead man.” That was when Valjean noticed the hole through Javert’s coat and the bullet lodged in his upper rib. True to the Inspector’s prediction, he neither bled nor seemed to experience any discomfort whatsoever, merely continued to regard Thénardier with the same eerie manner. It was not quite a smile; Valjean did not envy Thénardier that look.

Turning to face the altar, Valjean beheld his daughter looking faint yet unharmed, and his knees weakened with relief. She climbed unsteadily to her feet, aided by Monseigneur Myriel who spoke to her in words too quiet to hear. Marius ran to the girl’s side; in his haste, he knocked into the altar table, jarring the heavy glass bottle beneath. It tipped onto its side, where it  rolled in the direction of the stairs.

When each husband was assured of Cosette’s safety, Javert frowned severely. “If it were not for the laws of our world,” he began, “I would give you the thrashing you deserve here and now. As it is, I will have to settle for repeating my son-in-law’s directive—leave this place at once, and do not think to come back here.”

Thénardier perceived Valjean standing at Javert’s side and his eyes widened in understanding. His expression, which had become sniveling in the face of a creature seemingly unaffected by bullets, now returned to its usual sly smirk. 

“Well, well, well,” he said. “Who’d have seen it coming?” He sneered at Javert. “Congratulations, Monsieur. I mean, you only ruined this man’s life and then offed him to boot, must be a match made in heaven. And you—” he added, turning to look at Valjean instead, “I thought I’d seen it all, but getting hitched to your jailer? You’re a sick man, Valjean.”

He felt the words like a blow to the stomach, but there was beyond Valjean’s hurt a slowly building anger. How dare this man threaten his daughter? How dare this man insult Javert? How dare he appear here, at a wedding of all places, just to spread his wickedness and cruelty? Valjean tensed, a spring coiled for release, and by the look on Javert’s face, the Inspector felt the same. Deliberately, Javert took his hand again, though it was unclear whether he were holding Valjean back or himself.

But Thénardier was not through. Turning on his heel, he strode to the bottom of the altar steps and jeered at where Cosette and Marius stood holding one another.

“Let’s not forget the lady of the hour,” he said contemptuously. “Did you know, Monsieur le Baron, that your wife’s mother was a whore? The wench you married has no noble breeding—she’s common gutter filth, just like me.”

Cosette’s expression turned cold at that pronouncement, but Thénardier had one final taunt left to issue. Spotting the bottle laying on the top of the platform, he mounted the steps to snatch it from the ground. Its scarlet contents glinted invitingly in the candlelight.

“A toast!” he proclaimed. “To prostitutes and orphan brats!” 

Prying the stopper from the crystal vessel, Thénardier raised the bottle mockingly. Valjean stared at the red contents sloshing within, a feeling of foreboding growing within him. He should say something, he thought. He should warn -

It was too late. Thénardier tipped his head back and took a long draught from the bottle.

There was a silence which stretched like a silk thread. Thénardier grinned triumphantly, his lip stained with a drink that was not quite wine. Then, the bottle slipped through his fingers, falling to the top of the platform steps. It shattered, but all eyes were fixed on Thénardier as he began to cough, scrabbling desperately at his chest. 

Sinking to his knees, Thénardier’s face turned first red and then blue as he choked on his own breath. The hacking fit lasted for a long time. When finally he sat back up, it was plain he was as dead as the rest of the wedding guests.

“Oh,” Thénardier said, staring in disbelief at the broken shards of the poisoned bottle around him.

“Ah,” said Javert, releasing his hold on Valjean. “That changes things.”

Across the aisle, Fantine stood up amid the crowd.

“You,” she said. “You lying, sneaking, abominable scoundrel.”

Thénardier turned, and twitched as he seemed to recognize her for the first time.

Standing up on his pew, Gavroche pointed an accusatory finger and said, “That old rat put me out on the street!”

Unfazed by the descriptive string of expletives and slurs which continued to fall from the little boy’s mouth, the Amis stood up and crossed their arms in clear disavowal. Thénardier looked between their stony faces, and found no sign of mercy. His eyes shifted, looking for a way out, and they landed on Javert.

“Monsieur le Inspector,” he said, the very model of contrition, “you are a man of justice. Surely you won’t let this rabble accost a citizen of our noble empire.”

Javert raised a single dark eyebrow, glancing from Thénardier to Fantine and then back again.

“I think,” he said, the faintest of curls to his lip, “that whatever this ‘rabble’ elects to do to you, it will be far less than what you deserve.”

Thénardier gulped, scrambling to his feet, but all his cunning was not enough to escape a mother’s wrath. Fantine, fueled by the righteous fury of one who has been extorted, her child abused and maligned by those who should have protected her, strode across the stones and up the stairs before the once-innkeeper could take so much as a single step. Grabbing him by the collar, Fantine dragged Thénardier like a sack of potatoes toward the little door behind the altar leading down to the storerooms. 

Behind Fantine, the Amis fell in line. They were led at the fore by Gavroche, who had relieved a skeleton of his arm and was using it as a stick with which to poke and prod the late M. Thénardier. A final cry for help echoed around the great cathedral chamber before the crowd disappeared through the door, and then the reverberations died away, leaving quiet in their place.

In a daze, Valjean looked around at the carnage. They had made quite a mess of the cathedral, he feared; there were shots taken out of the pews and shards of glass strewn across the platform, nor could he forget the wreckage in the narthex. At a loss for what to do, Valjean adjusted his cravat and tugged the wrinkles from his waistcoat. Near the altar, Cosette and Marius’ heads were bowed together as Myriel spoke lowly to them both.

They were both safe, he thought. It was a miracle.

Javert, too, looked around. He tutted in disapproval, and the noise brought Valjean back to himself.

“Thank you,” he murmured, turning to gaze up at his husband. “You saved Cosette’s life.”

The Inspector frowned down at the bullet still lodged in the bone of his rib. “I shall have to have this coat mended,” he lamented. “Perhaps I can foot Thénardier the cleaner’s bill, if he is not torn to pieces by an angry mob first.”

Valjean glanced at the little door which now stood firmly, ominously shut. “I would not count on it,” he said. A part of him wondered if he should feel guilt, but just then all which he could muster was the desire to go home.

Home; the thought filled him with a strange, bittersweet joy. When had he last inhabited a place which meant more than as mere shelter, somewhere to hide from the shadows of the world? Well, Javert’s little apartment was still full of shadows, but with a bit of honest effort, Valjean was confident that even that could be changed.

Slipping out of the seats, Valjean ascended to the altar. He was conscious of Javert following behind, but at a distance.

“Children,” he said, and both Marius and Cosette looked up. “It is time for us to depart.”

Cosette pressed a hand to her mouth; it seemed she was crying already, though now the tears started fresh. “Will I ever see you again?” she asked, reaching out for his hands.

Gently, Valjean slid his thumb across the girl’s palm. “One day,” he said. “And your mother, too.”

“I won’t know what to do without you,” Cosette sniffled, and Valjean’s unbeating heart ached again with the loss it remembered.

“You will be happy,” he replied. “You will have gardens and new bonnets and a home of your own. When you are ready -” He took hold of Marius’ hand, too “- you shall have children. And I will always watch over you, though you may not see me.”

“Jean,” said Myriel, who had hitherto merely observed this exchange taking place before him. “Are you not forgetting something?”

Valjean inclined his head. “In my bureau,” he said carefully, “you shall find a letter, addressed to you. I penned it in June, when I feared circumstances were to play out... differently than they did.” Touching his daughter’s head, he explained, “When you return home, you should read it. It will tell you who I am, and who your mother was. Forgive me if you can for not sharing all with you sooner, but I couldn’t bear to have you think ill of me.”

“Oh Papa,” said Cosette. “I could never.”

He kissed her once on the forehead and shook Marius’s hand. Then he looked back at Javert, who awaited him on the stair. 

“I am ready, my love,” he said.

“As am I,” announced Myriel’s serene voice.

Bemused, Valjean turned back. “What do you mean?” he asked.

The Bishop smiled his venerable smile. “Are you happy, Jean?”

No less puzzled, Valjean replied, I am.”

“For your own sake, and not another’s?”

More slowly, Valjean answered, “You know that this is so.”

Myriel’s smile grew. “Then I am happy for you. And now, I think my own weary soul will also find its rest.”

Uncomprehendingly, Valjean looked on as Myriel strode down into the aisle towards the double doors. They opened at his approach as if touched by the very hand of God, first the doors to the narthex, and then beyond the doors to the street. A single long beam of sunlight shone through, illuminating the Bishop’s silhouette like a halo. Then it struck the rose window at the rear of the cathedral, and the colored glass began to glow with heavenly light.

It seemed to Valjean that he caught on a wisp of air a quiet, contented sigh, and then he watched as before his very eyes, the Bishop Myriel was transfigured, his vestments dissolving into a cloud of one thousand fluttering moths. They seemed to gather between them the brilliant white light of the man’s spirit, and then they passed through the double doors into whatever world lay beyond. When the doors fell shut and the sunlight faded, all that was left was a small mound of dust to suggest Myriel had ever been there at all.

Valjean discovered he was weeping; a part of him marveled that this was an expression of sentiment a corpse could still offer, but Javert’s arm was wrapped around his shoulders in comfort, and anyway they were not tears of sorrow, or at least no more sorrow than at any parting when one is assured they will see a dear friend again, someday.

Marius came to stand at his side, looking down the aisle in awe. “He was a very good man, wasn’t he?”

“He was the best of men,” Valjean agreed, wiping his eyes.

“No,” said Cosette, appearing between her father and her husband. “That would be you, Papa.”

“I am afraid I must take your daughter’s side in this,” murmured Javert. “You are the best man I have ever known.”

Valjean fought the small, embarrassed smile threatening to overtake his somber expression. “You will not still say so when I ask you to help with the chores.”

“I could want for nothing more,” Javert said quietly.

Standing on tiptoe, Valjean leaned over to peck his husband on the cheek, but Javert turned his head instead and caught his mouth in a proper kiss. When they broke apart, Valjean felt himself breathless despite not needing to breathe.

“Let us go home,” he said. 

Javert held him closer in reply, and Valjean glanced over his shoulder, seeking out Cosette’s sweet face. All his love and adoration was reflected back there in his daughter’s eyes, and it was in knowing the joy of her forgiveness that Valjean allowed the world to go black at the edges one final time.


	8. In the Ice or in the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started this story, AnonymousFan drew me some _lovely_ linearts of our spooky boys in a Tim Burton-esque style. I loved them so I much I colored them, and with her permission, I now share them with you.  <3
> 
> Edit: Aaaaaaa [wolfalyan](https://wolfalyan.tumblr.com/post/181650351274/little-painting-inspired-by-an-amazing-fanfic) on tumblr made a painting, I'm going to cry with all these beautiful pieces!

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/163232043@N02/45632342395/in/dateposted-public/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/163232043@N02/45632390225/in/dateposted-public/)


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